RAMSEY  BENSO 


7 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
A  LORD  OF  LANDS 

326  pp.,  izmo.     $1.50. 

The  unusual  and  convincing  narrative  of  the  ex- 
periences of  a  man  of  good  sense,  with  wages  of 
$50  a  month  and  five  children,  following  his  deter- 
mination to  leave  the  city  and  farm  it  in  the  North- 
west. 

"A  book  of  real  adventure — an  adventure  in  living-. 
Nothing  is  more  wonderful  than  the  way  the  commonest 
details  contribute  to  the  homely  interest." — The  In- 
dependent. 

"Will  appeal  instantly  and  throughout  its  entire  length 
to  the  lover  of  the  outdoor  life." — Boston  Transcript. 

"Unique  in  literature  .  .  .  told  with  the  utmost  art." 
— San  Francisco  Chronicle, 

'•We  congratulate  Mr.  Benson  upon  making  a  most 
readable  book  out  of  his  practical  and  emotional  farmer's 
life,  and  the  steps  that  led  up  to  it,  and  we  congratulate 
the  public  upon  having  secured  a  bit  of  literature  of  new 
and  not  clearly  definable  flavor." — New  York  Times  Review. 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


MELCHISEDEC 


BY 


RAMSEY   BENSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  LORD  OF  LANDS." 


NEW   YORK 
HENRY   HOLT   AND   COMPANY 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY. 


Published,  August,  1909. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK   I 

Sbacft 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  CHAFF  WHICH  THE  WIND  DRIVETH  AWAY  ..............      3 

II.  BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON  ..........................     23 

III.  A  PHYSICIAN  FOR  HEALING  ............................     33 

BOOK  II 

2>r.  TRobect's  SMars 
DIARY  ................................................     43 

BOOK   III 

B  Dolce  Crying  in  tbe  WU&erness 

I.  THE  WILDERNESS  ......................  ,  .............    61 

II.  JEAN  VAIJEAN  IN  PETTICOATS  _____  ..................    70 

III.  MANNA  ..................  ...........................     80 

IV.  A  GRINDER  WHO  is  GRIST  ............................     86 

V.  NOT  WELCOME  ........  .............................      98 

VI.  FISHERS  OF  MEN  .....................................  112 

VII.  THE  SOCIETY  OF  JESUS  ..............................     125 

VIII.  HARVEST  OF  HATE  ...................................  139 

BOOK  IV 

Dr.  IRobert's 


DIARY  ...........................................  .....  149 

iii 


iv  Contents 

BOOK  v 
flfcr. 


I.  DINNER  OF  HERBS  ...................................  173 

II.  A  STRANGER,  AND  THEY  TOOK  HIM  IN  ...............  182 

III.  MR.  JAKES'S  PARABLE  ...............................  191 

IV.  THE  POINT  OF  IT  ....................................  202 

V.  OMNIS  AMANS  ......................................  211 

VI.  OMNIS  AMANS  AMENS  .........  ......................  222 

VII.  ANOTHER  VIKING  ........   .......................  235 

VIU.  UNTO  THE  GENTILES  FOOLISHNESS  ......  ..............  242 

IX.  A  BRAND  FROM  THE  BURNING  .......................  252 

X.  FBMINA  EST  VARIUM  .............................  259 

XI.  THE  MAN  OF  WRATH    ..............................  268 

XII.  SALT  WITHOUT  SAVOR  ...............................  283 

XIII.  OUT  OF  THIS  BODY  OF  DEATH  .......................  295 


MELCHISEDEC 


"  Called  of  God  a  high  priest  after  the  order  of  Mel- 
chisedec. 

"  Of  whom  we  have  many  things  to  say,  and  hard  to  be 
uttered,  seeing  ye  are  dull  of  hearing. 

"  For  when  for  the  time  ye  ought  to  be  teachers,  ye  have 
need  that  one  teach  you  again  which  be  the  first  principles 
of  the  oracles  of  God ;  and  are  become  such  as  have  need 
of  milk,  and  not  of  strong  meat." 

— PAUL,  TO  THE  HEBREWS. 


"  It  isn't  notions  sets  people  doing  the  right  things — it's 
feelings." 

— ADAM  BEDE. 


BOOK  I 
SHACK 


CHAPTER    I 

CHAFF  WHICH  THE  WIND  DRIVETH  AWAY 

SHACK  had  the  right,  perhaps  doubly  the  right,  to 
quarter  his  arms  with  the  blazon  of  royalty.  More- 
over, it  was  a  right  which  you  hadn't  to  go  groping 
away  back  in  the  dark  ages  to  confirm.  If  you 
mounted  up  only  as  far  as  Shack's  great-grandfather, 
you  came  upon  a  king.  True,  this  great  personage 
was  a  red  Indian,  chief  over  the  mere  remnant  of  a 
tribe  never  very  important,  and  by  that  a  lesser  figure 
in  history  than  a  Plantagenet;  yet  royalty  is  royalty, 
unaffected  in  its  essence  by  the  ups  and  downs  of 
fortune.  How  was  it  with  the  seventeenth  Louis  ?  He 
had  no  nation  but  by  courtesy,  no  crown,  no  throne, 
nay,  not  even  so  much  as  a  fresh  shirt  for  his  majesty's 
back,  and  still  he  was  concededly  royal.  Shack's 
great-grandfather's  dominions  were  only  a  few  acres 
of  wild  swamp,  his  people  only  a  few  score  of  de- 
jected souls,  and  his  sway  entirely  subject  to  the  will 
of  the  Great  Father  at  Washington — so  much  was  un- 
deniable ;  but  withal  there  is  many  a  boast  of  heraldry 
no  valider  than  the  blazonry  aforesaid. 

This  king's  daughter  was  Shack's  grandmother,  and 
that  raises  another  question.  By  ordinary  usages, 
she  was  a  princess  of  the  blood,  but  by  Indian  usages 

3 


4  Shack 

there  are  no  princesses,  poets  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing. The  daughter  of  a  chief  is  no  better  than 
the  daughter  of  anybody  else.  She  inherits  her 
mother's  estate,  or  a  lesser,  for  whereas  the  mother 
has  the  distinction  of  being  a  great  man's  beast  of 
burden,  the  daughter  may  become  the  drudge  of  the 
most  ordinary  buck  in  the  tribe.  She  is  a  chattel 
anyway  and  gets  no  more  consideration  for  being  the 
chief's  than  if  she  were  his  pony, — probably  not  so 
much,  since  a  pony  can  carry  more  load  than  a  wo- 
man. However,  the  descent  is  not  justly  to  be  im- 
pugned. Feudal  jurisconsults  held  that  a  child  took 
no  more  from  its  mother  than  a  bird  from  its  nest,  but 
their  doctrine  was  long  since  exploded;  and  had 
Shack  chosen  to  claim  his  title,  the  fact  that  he  de- 
rived through  the  female  line  was  no  serious  diffi- 
culty— greater  difficulties  are  being  surmounted  by 
heraldry  every  day.  He  might  never  be  king,  per- 
haps, but  the  tinge  of  the  purple  was  his  nevertheless. 
Who  his  grandfather  was,  no  history  saith.  The 
princess  (to  speak  out  of  the  Indian  manner)  was 
never  married, — it  was  the  occasion  of  considerable 
chattering  among  the  women  when  their  quick  and 
watchful  eyes  caught  the  shadow  which  the  coming 
event  could  not  be  kept  from  casting;  and  when,  one 
bleak  autumn  day,  being  then  on  their  way  back  to 
the  reservation  to  spend  the  winter,  they  had  to  halt 
a  few  hours  while  another  soul  was  added  to  their 
numbers  by  the  travail  of  the  chiefs  unwed  daughter, 
some  joking  was  called  forth,  of  the  saturnine,  Indian 
sort.  But  on  the  whole  nobody  minded  much  until 
the  word  went  round  that  the  new  arrival,  a  girl  by 
the  way,  was  of  mixed  parentage.  This  imported  an 
element  of  novelty,  and  there  was  a  buzz  of  gossip. 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind  Driveth  Away     5 

The  princess,  too,  as  if  her  purpose  were  to  stimulate 
curiosity  and  draw  to  her  affair  more  than  its  right- 
ful share  of  attention,  was  mum  as  any  oyster. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  guessing  as  to  Shack's 
grandfather,  first  and  last. 

They  reached  the  reservation  shortly,  whereupon 
the  young  mother  hastened  to  the  Catholic  priest  who 
had  his  rude  altar  hard  by,  and  gave  the  child  to  be 
baptized  in  the  faith  and  christened  Marie.  Of  course 
that  meant  only  one  thing,  namely,  that  its  father 
was  a  Frenchman.  At  that  time  Frenchmen  were 
commoner  than  any  other  variety  of  the  paleface, 
their  gallantry  was  proverbial,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  tribe  which  hadn't  its  half  breeds  who  could  boast 
themselves  of  the  race  of  St.  Louis.  But  with  all 
their  guessing  the  women  could  never  quite  make  out 
what  particular  Frenchman  this  particular  Frenchman 
had  been;  it  was  a  fruitless  quest  and  therefore  tire- 
some, and  before  long  they  gave  it  up.  The  princess 
fostered  a  certain  negative  interest  in  the  business  by 
bestowing  more  care  on  her  baby  than  was  customary, 
but  in  less  than  a  year  she  died  of  quick  consumption, 
and  that  closed  the  incident,  as  far  as  the  women  were 
concerned.  It  was  only  an  incident,  anyway. 

Marie  grew  up  a  member  of  the  king's  household. 
That  is  to  say,  it  was  his  lodge  which  she  sneaked 
into,  all  uninvited  and  barely  tolerated,  at  night;  and 
it  was  food  of  his  providing  which  she  fought  for,  get- 
ting much  or  little  as  fortune  favored  her.  No  es- 
pecial consideration  at  the  hands  of  her  relatives  dis- 
tinguished her  from  other  little  girls;  like  them  and 
along  with  them,  she  grew  up  as  best  she  might,  in  the 
way  of  some  wild  thing.  Those  Indians  were  not  yet 
weaned  from  their  nomadic  habit, — nothing  could  in- 


6  Shack 

duce  them  to  stay  on  the  reservation  in  summer.  With 
the  first  whiff  of  spring,  sometimes  while  yet  snow 
lay  on  the  ground  and  the  air  was  sharp  with  frost, 
they  would  flee  to  their  beloved  wilds  and  the  preca- 
rious freedom  there  awaiting  them,  and  as  likely  as  not 
nothing  more  would  be  seen  of  them  till  the  blizzards 
of  the  late  fall  drove  them  back.  Marie  went  along, 
to  take  her  chances  with  the  rest,  to  revel  and  waste 
when  game  was  plentiful,  to  starve  when  it  failed. 
In  her  attitude  toward  the  advantages  of  civilization, 
she  was  as  much  an  Indian  as  any  of  them.  She  never 
set  foot  in  the  school,  at  the  reservation,  though  the 
teachers  tried  their  best  to  catch  her.  They  thought 
her  romantically  beautiful,  and  comely  she  certainly 
was.  The  French  had  softened  the  color  of  her  hair 
and  put  a  very  fetching  kink  in  it  besides,  and  had 
made  plump  her  cheeks  till  the  bones  thereof  were 
respectably  covered;  and  she  retained  enough  of  the 
Indian  to  be  lithe  and  graceful. 

The  priest  of  the  mission  took  an  interest  in  her, 
too,  and  cultivated  her  as  much  as  she  would  let  him. 
On  the  whole,  he  made  out  rather  better  than  the 
teachers,  for  Marie  discovered  some  religious  feeling, 
or  what  might  easily  pass  for  such  in  the  sanguine 
eyes  of  the  father.  It  was  naturally  so, — most  all 
Indians  have  a  religious  feeling,  in  their  vague, 
heathen  fashion,  and  as  for  the  other  part  of  her, 
everybody  knows  how  pious  French  are  apt  to  be, 
especially  their  womenkind.  But  Marie  was  peculiar 
about  it,  very.  She  gave  every  evidence  of  loving  the 
priest  and  reverencing  his  holy  office.  If  she  met  him 
anywhere,  no  matter  where,  be  the  ground  dry  or 
muddy,  she  would  drop  on  her  knees  and  kiss  his  hand ; 
and  that,  too,  though  he  forbade  her,  and  told  her 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind  Driveth  Away     7 

plainly  that  she  was  not  to  kneel  in  that  fashion  to  any 
man  less  than  a  bishop.  But  Marie  would  have  her 
way,  notwithstanding  entreaty  or  command  to  the  con- 
trary. She  went  to  her  duties  with  an  eagerness  al- 
most frantic,  yet  very  irregularly,  and  utterly  regard- 
less of  the  law.  The  priest  instructed  her  over  and 
over  in  the  Easter  obligation,  and  solemnly  warned  her 
that  if  she  did  not  receive  the  body  of  Christ  at  least 
once  between  Sexagesima  and  Pentecost,  she  thereby 
put  herself  out  of  communion  with  the  saints.  Marie 
cried  out  in  terror  at  the  awful  suggestion — and  went 
to  her  duties  as  the  fancy  took  her.  Sometimes  she 
would  present  herself  to  be  shrived  three  or  four  times 
a  week.  Sometimes  she  would  confess  and  stay  away 
from  the  communion.  Sometimes  she  would  approach 
the  altar,  kneel  a  moment,  and  jump  up  and  hurry  out 
without  receiving  the  host.  Sometimes  she  would 
repair  to  the  chapel  all  living  alone,  and  the  priest 
would  find  her  there,  bowed  down  and  weeping  as  if 
her  heart  were  breaking ;  but  when,  on  such  occasion, 
he  tenderly  asked  her  what  troubled  her,  she  answered 
nothing,  and  looked  up  at  him  in  unfeigned  wonder. 

The  priest  and  the  teachers  were  beginning  to  ask, 
in  much  anxiety,  what  was  to  become  of  Marie,  when 
she  settled  the  doubt,  all  without  notice,  and  with 
characteristic  waywardness,  by  going  to  live  with  a 
rough  old  cruiser, — a  Scotchman  whose  name  was 
none  other  than  Robert  Bruce.  And  just  here  is  where 
the  possibility  of  a  further  right  to  that  royal  quarter- 
ing came  in, — the  seed  of  the  illustrious  king  whom 
the  spider  put  new  heart  into  has  been  known  to 
spring  up  in  more  unexpected  places;  but  whether  or 
no,  Bruce  was  at  all  events  signally  possessed  of  the 
unlovable  traits  of  that  monarch's  race, — was  a  veri- 


8  Shack 

table  Caledonian  bear,  in  short.  He  shocked  the  priest 
and  the  teachers  immensely,  and  it  was  sickening  to 
think  of  Marie  going  to  him.  He  was  past  forty  and 
the  girl  not  yet  fifteen,  and  in  every  respect  there  was 
equal  or  greater  disparity, — they  were  the  hawk  mat- 
ing with  the  dove.  Any  heart,  unless  an  Indian's, 
or  a  Scotchman's,  must  revolt  out  of  sheer  sympathy, 
at  such  a  tender  flower  of  the  forest  being  plucked  by 
so  ruthless  a  hand.  And  yet,  what  else?  Marie  was 
a  woman  and  had  to  go  to  some  man;  Bruce  was  at 
worst  as  good  as  a  redskin  would  be,  and  between 
Bruce  and  some  redskin  her  choice  lay.  The  priest 
saw  the  necessity,  and  would  make  the  best  of  it;  he 
bravely  essayed  to  get  Bruce  baptized  in  order  that 
there  might  be  a  marriage  sanctified  by  the  rites  of 
the  Church.  But  that  enterprise  turned  about  as  you 
might  expect, — the  fellow  chose  to  deem  himself  in- 
sulted by  the  proposal  that  he  become  a  Papist.  In 
point  of  fact  he  was  an  unbelieving  pagan,  a  thorough 
atheist,  except  in  controversy;  there  no  Covenanter 
ever  defended  the  faith  of  his  fathers  more  hotly. 
He  flouted  the  priest,  mocked  at  his  mummeries,  and 
the  next  they  knew,  Marie  had  been  rapt  off  to  his 
cabin  without  any  ceremony  whatever.  The  most 
pathetic  part  of  it  was  her  willingness,  as  if  she  fore- 
saw all  the  tragedy  of  her  fate  yet  knew  it  was  her 
fate  none  the  less.  All  too  plainly  she  had  no  love 
for  Bruce,  not  even  a  tolerable  liking.  She  shud- 
dered at  his  approach  and  beheld  him  with  terror  in 
her  eyes,  like  a  fluttering  bird  which  a  serpent  has 
charmed. 

Shack  was  her  son,  her  first-born  and  only  child. 
The  day  he  was  ushered  into  this  vale  of  tears,  Bruce 
chanced  to  be  in  a  frolicsome  mood, — not  a  common 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind   Driveth  Away   9 

thing,  for  it  was  much  more  like  him  to  be  surly  and 
fractious.  He  had  been  made  aware  of  Marie's  royal 
lineage,  how  that  her  grandfather  had  been  chief  of 
the  tribe,  and  he  was  minded  to  have  his  joke  out  of 
it.  The  Indian  law  was,  when  a  son  was  born  to  the 
chief,  for  that  eminent  individual,  the  moment  he 
heard  the  first  wail  of  his  offspring,  to  go  forth  from 
the  lodge,  and  the  first  object  he  was  made  conscious 
of,  outside,  determined  the  youngster's  name.  Sitting 
Bull  was  named  that  way.  His  father  went  forth, 
after  the  fashion  laid  down,  and  beheld  a  bison  sitting 
on  its  haunches, — a  most  extraordinary  posture  for 
a  bison,  but  then  Sitting  Bull  turned  out  an  extraor- 
dinary Indian.  So  likewise  Rain-in-the-Face,  who 
slew  Custer  and  drank  his  blood.  This  redoubtable 
warrior  was  born  at  dead  of  night,  and  when  his 
father  went  forth  he  could  see  nothing;  but  a  misty 
rain  was  falling,  and  he  felt  it  in  his  face — hence  the 
name.  Bruce's  conceit  was  to  carry  out  the  tradition. 
He  went  forth,  chuckling  hideously  to  himself,  and 
came  back  in  a  moment  and  named  the  infant  Limping 
Bluejay. 

Marie  had  other  views.  She  feared  her  violent, 
peppery  man,  and  chose  to  keep  her  own  counsel;  but 
in  the  night,  while  Bruce  slept,  she  rose  from  her 
bed,  and  with  her  day-old  baby  in  her  arms  made  her 
way  to  the  reservation.  Indian  women  were  used  to 
get  up  within  a  few  hours  after  confinement,  and 
never  the  worse  for  it;  but  Marie  was  less  an  Indian 
than  she  had  perhaps  imagined.  The  long  walk 
through  the  woods,  with  swamps  to  wade  and  fallen 
trees  to  climb  over,  was  too  much, — it  finished  her,  in 
fact.  The  priest  found  her  lying  at  the  door  of  his 
chapel  when  he  went  to  say  low  mass  in  the  morning. 


io  Shack 

She  was  conscious  still,  and  knew  him,  and  kissed  his 
hand,  as  of  old.  She  gave  him  the  child  to  be  bap- 
tized, and  that  done,  she  died. 

They  christened  him  Jacques.  But  most  everybody 
called  him  Shack.  When  the  English  tongue  said 
Jacques,  it  sounded  like  Shack. 

He  was  born  waif  and  stray.  His  father  took  no 
trouble  about  him,  absolutely  none.  Bruce  was  noti- 
fied of  Marie's  death, — the  priest  himself  went  out  to 
the  cruiser's  cabin  and  had  a  stormy  interview;  but 
nothing  came  of  it.  He  was  asked  what  he  wished 
done  with  the  child,  and  his  reply  was  that  he  didn't 
care  in  the  least  about  the  brat.  The  agent  at  the 
reservation  proposed  recourse  to  the  civil  law,  but  be- 
fore the  first  steps  could  be  taken  by  leaden-heeled 
justice,  the  crafty  cruiser  vanished,  and  was  seen  no 
more  in  those  parts.  Shack  never  had  the  least  benefit 
of  his  father,  yet  his  orphanage  was  not  without  its 
compensations.  Bruce's  evasion  of  his  duties  threw 
the  child  back  on  the  tribe,  and  that  was  to  the  child's 
advantage  as  regards  material  welfare,  anyway.  If 
he  was  neglected,  neglect  was  the  common  lot  of  all 
the  babies,  and  he  could  manage  as  they  did.  The 
better  part  of  the  business  was  that  he  escaped  being 
abused.  If  he  unhappily  got  in  the  way  he  was  likely 
to  be  kicked  out  of  it,  but  he  wasn't  followed  up  and 
beaten.  If  he  went  cold  and  hungry  often,  that  was 
the  Indian  way,  the  Indian  choice.  Neither  he  nor  any 
other  of  his  race  need  do  without  the  ordinary  creat- 
ure comforts, — they  were  all  wards  of  the  nation  and 
they  had  a  home  at  the  reservation  whenever  they 
chose  to  claim  it.  What  Shack  must  have  suffered 
had  Bruce  departed  from  the  fashion  of  his  kind  and 
lived  up  to  his  domestic  obligations  to  the  extent  of 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind  Driveth  Away  1 1 

standing  by  the  family  he  was  responsible  for, — well, 
speculation  on  that  head  were  idle,  but  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  luck  was  with  the  boy  when  he  was  left  father- 
less. "  Good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish !  "  the  agent  re- 
marked, and  it  was  justly  put. 

Shack  had  his  especial  friends,  and  they  were  worth 
having.  The  priest  would  never  forget  him,  or  tire 
of  laboring  for  his  soul,  and  that  meant  many  a  little 
favor  even  though  his  laboring  went  for  nothing. 
The  teachers  knew  about  him,  too,  and  set  out  to 
inveigle  him  into  the  primrose  paths  of  learning,  as 
they  or  their  predecessors  had  done  with  his  mother 
before  him ;  and  that  meant  more  little  favors.  Marie 
herself  had  not  been  more  baffling, — in  much  he  was 
like  her,  though  not  so  handsome,  or  so  vivacious,  or 
so  robust.  He  had  her  hair,  shot  with  a  touch  of  the 
Scotch  red  and  none  the  worse  for  that ;  but  his  face, 
where  hers  had  been  glowing  and  plump,  was  sallow 
and  lean;  and  his  figure,  where  hers  was  the  picture 
of  alert,  vigorous  health,  was  stooped  and  rickety. 
Still  there  was  a  beauty  about  him,  especially  in  his 
truly  wonderful  eyes,  big  and  brown  and  full  of  a 
smouldering  fire.  The  teachers  were  convinced  that 
there  was  a  soul  behind  those  eyes,  but  do  what  they 
would  they  never  could  reach  it.  Shack  would  tolerate 
them  when  they  came  bearing  suitable  gifts,  but  he 
wouldn't  listen  to  their  lessons;  and  it  was  likewise 
with  the  advances  of  the  priest.  He  was  dumb  enough 
at  any  time,  but  peculiarly  so  when  the  appeal  was  to 
his  religious  nature. 

So  he  grew  up,  to  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen, — 
a  slender,  frail  creature,  belonging  to  no  race,  a  being 
like  none  other,  a  soul  apart  and  having  no  kind. 
In  summer  he  wandered  over  the  hunting-grounds 


1 2  Shack 

with  his  tribe,  though  never  hunting  himself, — he  was 
neither  buck  nor  squaw,  but  spent  his  time  hovering 
idly  about  the  lodges  or  on  lonely  excursions  none 
knew  or  cared  whither.  In  winter  he  resorted  among 
the  lumberjacks,  in  the  pineries.  There  was  an  inde- 
cision upon  him,  as  if  he  knew  not  where  he  belonged, 
whether  with  the  savagery  whence  he  was  sprung 
or  with  the  civilization  whose  outposts  were  the  lum- 
ber-camps. In  the  spring,  when  the  waters  filled  the 
streams,  and  the  log-drives  were  getting  off,  he  would 
watch  them,  he  would  even  follow  them,  with  a  long- 
ing in  his  face.  Once  he  was  prevailed  upon  by  the 
good-natured  men  to  accompany  them  as  far  as  the 
first  settlement,  but  there  their  good-nature  took  form 
in  making  him  tipsy  and  he  fled  in  a  fright  back  to  the 
tribe. 

He  was  known  far  and  wide  among  the  lumber- 
jacks. He  was  a  famous  jumper.  There  were  other 
jumpers,  but  Shack  was  best  of  all. 

What  is  a  jumper,  do  you  ask? 

Briefly,  a  person  touched  with  some  nervous  malady, 
whereby,  if  you  came  up  to  him  stealthily,  and  laid  a 
hand  upon  him  unawares,  he.  would  very  likely  jump 
prodigiously,  and  turn  livid,  and  yell  as  in  agony. 
The  lumberjacks  enjoyed  nothing,  perhaps,  more  than 
making  a  jumper  jump,  and  they  were  never  tired 
of  putting  Shack  through  his  paces.  And  yet,  though 
he  was  superlatively  good  at  it,  he  had  his  weak  point, 
— you  couldn't  absolutely  rely  on  him.  At  times  he 
wouldn't  jump, — nothing  could  make  him  jump;  no 
matter  what  you  did  to  him,  he  was  cool  as  a  cu- 
cumber. Some  thought  it  depended  on  the  phases  of 
the  moon. 

Another  singularity  about  him  was  his  vagrant  way 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind  Driveth  Away  1 3 

of  drifting  about  from  camp  to  camp.  Now  he  would 
spend  a  whole  winter  at  one  camp,  and  now  he  would 
divide  the  season  among  a  dozen  or  more,  making 
long  journeys  through  the  trackless  forest,  regardless 
of  wind  and  weather,  at  a  speed  marvelous  to  think 
of.  That  was  the  Indian  of  him.  There  is  something 
almost  uncanny,  almost  suggestive  of  supernatural 
connections,  in  the  flitting  of  an  Indian,  like  a  dry  leaf 
before  a  gale,  here  to-day  and  there  to-morrow,  with 
incredible  distances  between.  Shack  would  put  in  his 
appearance  in  the  most  approved  style  of  unexpected- 
ness, it  might  be  day  or  it  might  be  night, — often 
the  teamsters,  the  first  men  out,  would  find  him  curled 
up  with  the  cattle.  They  were  always  glad  to  see 
him,  and  gave  him  hearty  welcome.  It  gets  pretty 
dull  about  a  lumber-camp,  and  a  new  face  is  a  god- 
send, not  to  mention  the  jumping,  and  the  fun  to  be 
got  out  of  that. 

You  are  not  to  believe  lumberjacks  uncommonly 
cruel, — if  you  take  them  below  the  bark  they  are  un- 
commonly otherwise.  But  their  position  is  peculiar. 
They  are  near  to  a  somber  nature,  for  nothing  can  be 
somberer  than  a  pine  forest  in  winter.  Their  hours 
are  long  and  solitary,  with  much  night  and  little  day, 
and  that  little  lessened  by  the  towering,  gloomy  trees. 
You  have  no  conception  of  the  dullness  which  gets  to 
brood  there,  or  you  will  find  some  apology  for  the 
diversion-hunger  which  possesses  the  men,  even  where, 
as  often  happens,  it  becomes  quite  desperate.  If  starv- 
ing castaways  will  greedily  devour  offal,  is  it  any 
wonder  that  lumberjacks  do  things  for  fun  which  we 
call  horrible?  We  can  hardly  call  them  less,  those 
torments  which  the  lumberjacks  put  upon  Shack,  the 
helpless,  frail  boy.  How  could  they  do  it,  with  the 


14  Shack 

very  look  of  him  an  appeal  for  pity?  Because  of  the 
deadly  dullness, — that's  all.  Because  they  were  dull, 
they  made  him  the  butt  of  all  manner  of  rough  horse- 
play, and  when  they  saw  it  hurt  him,  they  were  all 
the  more  pleased,  thought  it  all  the  more  fun.  Shack 
was  sensitive,  no  doubting  that, — more  likely  a  French 
trait  than  Scotch.  Certainly  it  wasn't  Indian.  An 
Indian  is  the  most  finished  of  stoics. 

He  had  imagination,  and  that  was  how  they  came  to 
tell  him  so  many  distressful  stories.  He  was  open  to 
every  sort  of  vague  suggestion, — they  had  no  need  to 
be  explicit, — if  they  so  much  as  hinted  at  the  possibil- 
ity of  some  spirit  of  evil  dwelling  in  a  crooked  tree, 
say,  or  in  the  airhole  where  the  water  bubbled  up  in 
the  coldest  weather,  it  was  enough ;  Shack  did  the  rest 
and  saw  the  fearsome  thing  with  creeping  flesh.  A 
certain  McGraw,  who  came  up  into  the  woods  winter 
after  winter,  knew  from  his  old  grandmother  in  Ire- 
land endless  legends  of  spooks  and  goblins, — he  could 
many  a  dreadful  tale  unfold,  and  it  was  rare  sport, 
they  all  considered,  to  see  Shack  stand  with  dropped 
jaw,  and  starting  eyes,  and  stiffening  hair.  Especially 
the  eyes.  Nobody  ever  saw  eyes  like  Shack's,  when 
he  was  under  strong  emotion.  It  was  a  curious  fact 
that  the  boy  would  go  from  camp  to  camp  till  he  found 
McGraw,  and  there  stay,  perhaps  during  the  rest  of 
the  winter. 

Once  upon  a  time  somebody,  keener  for  fun,  per- 
haps, or  more  ingenious,  hit  upon  the  felicitous  ex- 
pedient of  fixing  up  a  ghost,  to  scare  Shack. 

It  was  easily  managed.  The  men  worked  in  the 
bush,  of  an  afternoon,  as  long  as  they  could  see,  and 
made  their  way  back  to  camp  after  nightfall.  Shack 
did  not  always  go  into  the  bush,  but  sometimes  he  did, 


Chaff  Which   the  Wind   Driveth  Away    15 

and  they  selected  one  of  these  times,  when  the  moon 
was  about  right,  as  they  estimated,  and  had  the  ghost 
meet  him  at  a  lonesome  bend  in  the  path.  Two  or 
three  who  were  in  the  plot  had  come  along  with  him, 
and  they  professed  to  be  terrified  beyond  measure,  to 
help  out  the  illusion,  while  the  ghost  did  his  part  by 
groaning  dismally  and  gliding  about  on  unbending 
legs. 

But  the  play  fell  pretty  flat,  after  all. 

Not  because  Shack  was  skeptical,  though, — prob- 
ably his  imagination  never  worked  more  favorably 
than  on  that  occasion.  He  wasn't  scared, — that  was 
the  long  and  short  of  it.  Instead  of  recoiling,  as  one 
in  terror  might,  or  being  rooted  to  the  spot,  or  any- 
thing like  that,  he  sprang  forward,  eagerly,  as  if  a 
ghost  were  the  very  thing  he  had  been  wishing  most 
to  meet  with. 

And  then,  too,  where  a  man  is  downright  fright- 
ened, you  expect  him  to  be  speechless,  or  at  all  events 
to  have  difficulty  with  his  utterance.  Shack  wasn't 
speechless  at  all, — didn't  even  stammer. 

"  Are  you  a  dead  man  ? "  he  asked,  straightfor- 
wardly. 

The  ghost  made  answer,  in  a  sufficiently  hollow, 
creepy  voice,  that  he  was. 

"  You  were  buried  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes!  "  this  with  a  telling  sob. 

"Did  you  come  out  before  the  ground  froze?" 

They  weren't  looking  for  such  questions.  The 
ghost  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  hesitated ;  and  his 
hesitation  was  his  undoing.  For  now  Shack  came 
near  enough  to  lay  a  hand  upon  the  very  material 
white  blanket,  and  the  fleshly  limbs  underneath,  and 
knew  he  was  being  deceived.  What  then?  Nothing 


1 6  Shack 

out  of  him  but  a  low,  inarticulate  cry,  as  of  disap- 
pointment, and  with  that  he  shot  away  into  the  woods 
and  the  thick  night,  to  be  seen  no  more  at  that  camp. 

He  was  not  an  able  hand,  but  he  found  his  uses, 
apart  from  the  fun  he  furnished.  He  more  than 
earned  his  keep ;  what  he  ate  was  a  trifle  anyway,  for 
he  was  none  of  your  hearty  feeders,  while  as  for 
lodgings  he  asked  not  so  much  as  a  bunk, — only  a 
place  on  the  floor  by  the  fire.  If  they  had  a  blanket 
to  spare  him,  well  and  good,  he  would  take  it  and 
wrap  himself  in  it;  but  if  they  had  none  he  was  con- 
tent to  lie  down  without  cover  of  any  description. 
He  wasn't  brought  up  to  be  fastidious. 

He  had  been  known  to  prove  himself  an  extremely 
handy  man  in  a  pinch.  He  shunned  the  heavy  work, 
such  as  swinging  the  ax,  or  dragging  the  great  saw, — 
he  was  much  too  delicate  for  such  sustained  effort; 
but  he  could  rally  a  nervous  strength  against  an 
emergency  which  was  extraordinary.  And  he  was  not 
altogether  a  tender  plant,  as  they  found  out  the  day 
old  Dan  Beeman  had  his  feet  frozen  off.  That  was 
an  awful  day,  remembered  yet  by  many  an  old-timer. 
Story  went  that  the  glass  fell  to  sixty  degrees  below 
zero,  or  ninety  degrees  below  freezing.  They  had 
no  glass  at  the  camp,  but  at  Cantilever,  fifteen  miles 
off,  there  was  record  of  sixty  below.  You  and  I  have 
no  notion  of  such  cold  as  that. 

Their  hauling  team  was  four  splendid  great  bay 
oxen,  prize  animals  all  of  them,  quick  on  their  feet, 
steady  as  a  clock,  and  true  blue  to  the  bitter  end.  The 
regular  driver  got  up  and  fed  them  as  usual,  sniffed 
the  air  going  and  coming,  ate  his  breakfast  and  made 
plump  announcement  that  it  was  too  cold  for  him. 
He  wouldn't  stir  a  foot  from  the  camp,  though  old 


Chaff  Which  the   Wind  Driveth  Away    17 

Dan,  who  was  boss,  cursed  and  stormed  and  called 
him  all  kinds  of  a  baby.  Only  for  Shack  there  would 
have  been  no  logging, — he  was  at  hand  and  offered 
to  drive.  He  was  good  at  driving,  too,  when  you  take 
into  consideration  how  averse  the  average  ox  is  to  an 
Indian. 

Cold?    Say! 

You  know  the  way  the  runners  of  a  heavy  sled  will 
shriek  over  a  frosty  road, — the  frostier  the  road,  the 
more  the  runners  shriek.  Well,  when  they  started  off 
the  first  load  of  logs  that  morning,  the  men  at  the 
landing,  five  miles  away,  heard  the  runners  shrieking. 
That  was  partly  a  testimony  to  the  clearness  of  the 
air,  but  more  was  it  a  testimony  to  the  cold.  The  men 
took  it  as  such,  and  debated  seriously  whether  they 
were  quite  safe  to  keep  on  working. 

The  hauling  went  on  prosperously,  however,  until 
the  gang  at  the  skidways,  becoming  more  and  more 
alarmed  for  themselves,  at  length  built  a  roaring  fire 
of  the  slashings.  When  Shack  came  back  after  his 
second  load,  he  swung  his  cattle  round  within  ten  feet 
of  the  fire.  The  oxen  felt  the  heat,  and  came  to  a 
halt;  it  was  something  too  good,  under  the  circum- 
stances, to  pass  by. 

"  Whup — whup !  "  Shack  sang  out  to  them,  and 
touched  them  with  the  goad  to  bring  them  round,  but 
for  once  in  their  lives  they  were  disobedient,  and  only 
huddled  up  closer  to  the  fire,  until  you  could  smell 
their  hair  singeing. 

Old  Dan  was  a  fractious  fellow  at  best,  and  things 
had  been  going  more  or  less  against  his  grain  all  day. 
When  the  cattle  balked,  it  was  the  last  straw, — he  flew 
into  a  fury  and  was  beside  himself.  He  roared  at  the 
men,  commanding  them  to  put  out  the  fire,  calling 


i 8  Shack 

them  babies  and  cursing  to  curdle  your  blood,  and 
then,  when  their  only  response  was  to  pile  on  more 
fuel  (you  understand  that  a  boss  in  the  woods  is  boss 
in  a  limited  sense  and  has  considerably  less  authority 
than  the  Czar  of  Russia)  he  snatched  up  a  cart-stake, 
swung  it  with  all  his  might  (he  was  a  powerful  speci- 
men), and  brought  it  down  full  force  on  the  head  of 
the  off  ox  in  front.  The  patient,  trustful  beast,  look- 
ing for  nothing  but  kindness  from  the  men  he  so 
loyally  served,  made  no  movement  to  avoid  the  blow, 
— it  caught  him  on  the  horn,  and  the  horn  was  broken 
off  clean  at  the  skull.  The  shock  made  him  stagger 
and  groan,  and  in  a  moment  the  red  blood  gushed  out 
and  drenched  him. 

A  sickening  spectacle!  Half  a  dozen  voices  broke 
out  all  at  once,  in  horror  and  protest.  Even  old  Dan 
himself  was  sobered,  and  looked  sorry  for  what  he 
had  done.  But  Shack  was  made  frantic.  He  jabbered, 
in  Indian,  like  a  madman.  He  danced  and  wrung  his 
hands,  he  rushed  up  to  the  ox,  and  clasped  his 
arms  about  the  creature's  neck,  and  clung  there,  wail- 
ing and  whimpering,  and  the  blood  ran  over  him  till 
he  too  was  drenched  and  red  with  it.  That  made  the 
spectacle  all  the  more  sickening,  too  sickening  even  for 
lumberjacks  to  stand, — one  of  the  men  stepped  for- 
ward and  laid  hand  on  the  boy,  to  draw  him  away. 
At  the  touch  Shack  jumped,  and  screamed,  and  fled 
into  the  woods.  But  his  jumping  elicited  no  laughter, 
that  time, — it  wasn't  a  bit  funny.  The  dumb  ox  sway- 
ing his  mutilated  head  back  and  forth  in  testimony  to 
his  pain,  that  was  alone  enough  to  put  an  end  to  laugh- 
ing, and  there  was  moreover  the  thought  of  the  poorly 
clothed  lad  making  off  so,  with  the  cold  what  it  was. 
They  would  have  stopped  him,  but  he  was  away  be- 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind  Driveth  Away     19 

fore  they  realized  he  was  going.  They  believed  he 
had  gone  to  his  certain  death, — they  had  seen  the  last 
of  Shack.  Yet  it  wasn't  long  till  they  heard  of  him 
at  another  camp,  about  twenty  miles  away,  apparently 
none  the  worse.  So  they  had  a  laugh  out  of  it,  after 
all,  quoting  the  old  saying  to  the  effect  that  an  Indian 
is  all  face  and  can't  be  frozen. 

Sixty  degrees  below  is  nothing  to  trifle  with.  Old 
Dan  was  for  going  on  with  the  logging  and  turned 
in  to  drive  the  cattle  himself,  but  the  men  wouldn't 
stay  by  him.  They  were  sore  and  disgruntled  over 
what  had  happened,  but  more  than  that  they  feared 
the  terrible  cold,  and  so  they  struck,  and  went  back  to 
the  camp,  and  hovered  about  the  stove.  Old  Dan's 
bile  was  moved  afresh  by  their  mutiny,  and  he  raved 
and  railed,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  It  suited  his  mood 
to  stay  out,  himself,  and  he  went  storming  down  to 
the  landing,  and  put  in  the  day  there,  pottering  about 
all  by  himself.  But  towards  night  he  came  in,  with 
his  crest  fallen.  His  feet  were  frozen  hard  as  two 
stones,  and  he  never  stood  on  them  again.  Coal-oil 
was  the  common  remedy  for  frostbite,  and  old  Dan 
sat  till  morning  with  his  feet  plunged  in  a  bucket  of 
it ;  but  they  were  not  to  be  saved.  He  was  packed 
down  river  to  a  hospital,  and  the  surgeons  took  his 
feet  both  off,  and  told  him  he  was  lucky  to  keep  his 
life. 

The  last  the  lumberjacks  saw  of  Shack  was  at 
Bradish's  camp,  in  the  Deer  Lake  country.  Bradish 
was  a  pious  man, — as  pious  as  a  lumber-baron  could 
well  be  and  retain  his  barony.  You  know  about  how 
that  is.  He  was  the  owner  in  fee  or  leasehold  of  only 
two  forties  thereabouts,  and  a  million  of  logs  was  a 
big  yield  for  a  forty.  Yet  for  twelve  successive  win- 


20  Shack 

ters  he  sent  in  a  hundred  men,  who  never  logged  less 
than  six  millions  a  season.  You  see  the  point.  Twelve 
winters,  a  hundred  men,  and  only  two  forties  of  his 
own, — Bradish  wasn't  too  pious  for  that;  but  at  the 
same  time,  he  wouldn't  suffer  a  tap  of  work  to  be  done 
on  Sunday,  and  he  always  had  a  thought  for  his  men's 
souls.  The  men,  on  their  part,  understood  Bradish, 
and  when  there  came  along  one  day  a  tramping  evan- 
gelist, in  mackinaw  and  packs,  with  a  real  tussock 
slung  over  his  back  (he  had  a  fancy  to  be  a  lumber- 
jack to  lumberjacks,  you  perceive)  and  bringing  a  line 
from  headquarters  asking  that  he  be  shown  every 
courtesy,  they  were  in  no  doubt  as  to  what  was  ex- 
pected of  them.  They  were  to  give  the  sky-pilot  the 
best  in  the  shop,  and  listen  to  his  harangues  till  he 
got  tired  and  moved  on.  And  they  were  not  averse. 
Once  more  a  new  face  was  a  new  face,  and  even  a 
sermon  could  sound  good,  in  virtue  of  its  freshness, 
where  every  man  had  long  since  heard  all  the  shady 
stories  the  camp  could  muster. 

They  laid  themselves  out,  in  fact  The  evangelist 
had  a  wish  to  hold  a  meeting  in  the  open  air,  with  no 
roof  but  the  sky,  and  no  walls  but  the  whispering 
pines,  and  they  managed  the  business  for  him;  built 
a  great  fire  which  threw  its  light  far  down  the  aisles 
of  the  forest,  and  stood  about  and  listened  to  his  mes- 
sage, respectfully,  if  not  responsively.  A  strange  and 
striking  picture  they  made,  with  their  hundred  faces 
showing  in  the  fitful  light,  now  bright,  now  dull.  The 
picture,  the  weird  solemnity  of  it,  may  well  have  been 
what  affected  Shack,  and  prompted  him  to  do  what  he 
did.  It  was  a  new  thing  for  him  to  manifest  an  in- 
terest in  religion.  But  if  the  fathers  at  the  mission 
had  labored  in  vain  with  him,  that  might  have  been  for 


Chaff  Which  the  Wind  Driveth  Away     21 

the  lack  of  some  such  touch  as  was  afforded  here  and 
now, — the  brooding  presence  of  the  nature  which  was 
all  the  mother  he  had  known.  At  all  events,  for  what- 
soever reason  or  no  reason  at  all,  he  was  interested. 
The  men  were  always  expecting  him  to  do  something 
amusing,  and  there  was  a  rustling  about  the  fire,  and 
a  faint  softening  of  the  hundred  faces  when  he  was 
seen  to  push  himself  forward  and  take  his  stand  at 
length  so  near  that  he  was  fairly  looking  down  the 
evangelist's  throat,  in  the  attitude  of  rapt  attention. 
But  that  wasn't  all.  After  a  little  he  broke  in  on  the 
discourse,  with  an  abrupt  question. 

"Who  is  this  God?  "he  said. 

The  evangelist  flushed  resentfully, — it  sounded  so 
like  some  scoffer's  interruption;  but  when  he  saw  the 
boy,  and  the  earnestness  in  the  upturned  face,  he  was 
moved  to  answer  indulgently. 

"  The  Father  Almighty,  Creator  of  heaven  and  of 
earth,"  he  said,  and  bowed  reverently. 

That  wasn't  enough  for  Shack,  however.  "  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a 
strange  note  of  urgency,  almost  of  impatience,  in  his 
manner. 

"  You  know  what  a  father  is  ?  " 

"  Father  James,  at  the  mission  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  Your  own  father.  Have  you  no 
father?" 

"  I  have  nothing.  I  had  a  dog,  but  he  chased  a 
wolf  and  the  wolf  killed  him.  That  is  all  I  have." 

The  hundred  faces  smiled  broadly,  but  the  evan- 
gelist was  not  offended, — he  perceived  what  sort  of  a 
person  he  had  to  deal  with,  how  very  simple  and  un- 
schooled. 

"  Listen,  my  boy,"  he  said,  kindly.    "  God  is  great." 


22  Shack 

"  Like  the  tree,"  said  Shack,  pointing  to  the  Nor- 
way which  towered  above  them. 

"  Greater.     He  made  the  tree." 

"  Like  the  lake." 

"  Greater  yet.    He  made  the  lake,  also." 

"  Like  the  sun." 

"  He  is  greater  even  than  the  sun,  for  he  made  the 
sun  likewise.  He  is  greater  and  different.  God  is  a 
spirit,  my  boy.  We  cannot  see  him  except  by  his 
works,  or  hear  him,  or  feel  him." 

"  How  do  you  know  about  him,  then  ?  " 

"  By  His  Word !  "  and  the  evangelist  held  up  his 
Bible. 

The  end  of  the  incident  was  quite  the  most  sur- 
prising part  of  it.  The  men  were  less  surprised  than 
the  evangelist,  but  even  they  were  not  looking  for  any- 
thing like  that  which  happened.  For  now,  all  at  once, 
with  the  quickness  of  a  wildcat,  Shack  snatched  the 
book  out  of  the  sky-pilot's  uplifted  hand  and  bounded 
into  the  bush,  out  of  sight. 

It  was  a  little  while  before  anybody  moved  or  spoke, 
so  taken  aback  were  they  all.  Then  the  men  snickered, 
and  the  evangelist  found  his  voice  to  request,  not  with- 
out asperity,  that  somebody  recover  his  property  for 
him, — it  was  the  Bible  he  had  carried  with  him  for 
years  and  by  its  associations  it  was  very  dear;  he 
would  gladly  give  another  and  a  better  in  its  place, 
but  he  must  have  that  particular  Bible  back.  The 
men  shook  their  heads,  however;  none  of  them  could 
hope  to  overtake  the  fleet  child  of  the  forest.  In  vain 
the  evangelist  argued  that  Shack  was  lurking  some- 
where near,  that  such  a  mere  boy  would  never  dare  go 
far  into  the  forest  alone  at  night ;  the  men  knew  better. 


CHAPTER  II 

BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON 

A  LITTLE  country  school,  and  the  class  in  the  Third 
Reader  up.  Perhaps  you  know  about  the  class  in  the 
Third  Reader,  in  a  very  little  country  school,  in  a  very 
little  hut  of  a  house,  taught  by  a  very  little  young 
woman  who  is  not  so  sure  of  her  call  but  she  will  stop 
now  and  then  to  scan  the  horizon  for  a  cloud  the  size 
of  a  man's  hand  ? 

A  shocky  boy  begins  the  reading,  slowly  and 
heavily.  He  sticks  often,  and  as  often  as  he  sticks,  he 
will  back  up,  like  a  snowplow  in  a  drift,  to  gather 
headway,  and  have  at  it  again  with  fresh  energy. 

Thus: 

"  Littlebylit — tlethebird  —  thebirdbuildsher — nest- 
littlebylit — tlebylittlethe  —  sun — sinks — to — restlittle- 
bylit — tlethewaves  —  in  —  their  —  wavesintheirglee- 
smoothe  —  the  —  rough  —  rocks  —  roughrocksby  — 
theshore — of — the — thesea." 

Follows  a  girl,  with  pig-tailed  hair,  briskly,  with  the 
air  of  showing  the  boy,  and  all  the  world,  how : 

"  Littlebylittlethebirdbuildshernestlittlebylittlethesun 
sinkstorestlittleby  littlethe  wavesin  theirgleesmoothethe 
roughrocksbytheshoreof  thesea." 

And  so  forth  and  so  on,  until  the  waves  in  their 
glee  have  smoothed  the  rough  rocks  by  the  shore  of  the 

23 


24  Shack 

sea  a  matter  of  half  a  dozen  times,  in  as  many  various 
tones  and  manners. 

Scattered  about  in  the  rude  forms  are  a  number  of 
other  boys  and  girls,  the  eldest  nearly  grown,  the 
youngest  only  fairly  begun  to  grow.  Some  are  poring 
doggedly,  others  are  dreaming  with  their  eyes  open, 
and  one  small  lad  has  gone  frankly  to  sleep,  with  his 
head  lying  on  his  slate.  To  tell  the  truth,  everybody 
is  mdre  or  less  sleepy.  Even  the  teacher,  though  it  is 
her  bounden  duty  to  be  alert,  yawns  and  nods  in  spite 
of  herself.  There  is  a  hot  fire  in  the  little  stove,  and 
the  little  room  is  like  an  oven.  The  face  of  the  sleep- 
ing lad  glistens  with  sweat. 

The  teacher  sits  with  her  back  to  the  door,  but 
the  children  face  it,  and  they  waken  first.  There  has 
been  no  sound,  not  a  footfall,  or  the  creak  of  a  hinge, 
yet  all  at  once  the  children  are  broad  awake,  staring 
astonished  and  breathless.  The  bird  has  built  her  nest 
once  more,  little  by  little,  but  the  sun  is  left  in  midair, 
while  the  class  in  the  Third  Reader  give  themselves  up 
to  their  surprise.  Surprise  lays  hold  of  every  heart. 
The  sleeping  boy,  though  nobody  touches  him,  or 
speaks  to  him,  starts  up.  The  teacher  catches  the  in- 
fection, and  starts  up  too,  and  faces  about. 

A  man,  or  a  big  boy,  stood  in  the  doorway, — and  he 
was  Shack.  They  did  not  know  who  he  was  or  they 
would  have  been  even  more  amazed,  for  had  he  not 
come  all  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  on  foot,  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  without  provision  and  not  much  better 
than  half  clothed?  But  they  perceived  that  he  was  a 
stranger,  and  a  strange  figure,  who  had  come  strange- 
ly in  among  them,  without  a  footfall  or  a  creak  of 
warning;  and  by  that  they  were  amazed  enough. 

He  was  like  a  specter,  especially  as  he  did  not  speak, 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  25 

but  regarded  them  dumbly,  out  of  his  strange  dark 
eyes.  There  was  something  uncanny  about  the  whole 
affair,  and  the  teacher  was  frightened.  The  children 
could  see  that  she  was  frightened,  and  they  promptly 
took  fright  from  her,  and  huddled  back  among  the 
benches.  Of  course  it  lay  upon  her  to  do  something, 
and  she  rose  to  the  situation,  after  a  fashion. 

"  Good-day,  sir ! "  she  said,  with  a  quaver,  and 
forcing  a  poor  smile. 

Shack  glowered  at  her,  with  his  deep,  smouldering 
eyes.  "Can  I  learn  to  read  here?"  he  demanded, 
almost  fiercely. 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure ! "  the  little  teacher  answered, 
a  trifle  relieved  by  the  swift  reflection  that  cutthroats 
and  robbers  didn't  usually  begin  that  way. 

"  In  this  book  ?  "  and  Shack  pulled  the  sky-pilot's 
Bible  out  of  his  pocket,  and  showed  it  to  her,  jealously, 
without  letting  go  of  it. 

"  In  any  book,"  she  answered.  "  Have  you  never 
been  to  school  ?  " 

Never. 

"  Do  you  know  your  letters  ?  " 

He  didn't  even  know  what  letters  were. 

"  A,  B,  C,— and  so  on !  " 

And  so  on  ?    No,  that  was  all  strange  to  him. 

"Well,  won't  you  please  sit  down?"  The  little 
teacher  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  propose. 
Though  he  certainly  didn't  act  just  like  a  cutthroat  or 
a  robber,  she  couldn't  help  trembling  a  good  deal,  and 
turning  very  white,  it  was  all  so  unusual  and  un- 
expected. 

She  set  out  her  own  chair  for  him,  but  he  didn't  see 
it,  or  else  he  didn't  fancy  sitting  of  that  kind,  choosing 
rather  to  squat  down  against  the  wall,  on  his  heels,  like 


26  Shack 

an  Indian.  He  didn't  take  off  his  hat — who  had  ever 
taught  him  to  uncover,  in  the  house,  or  in  the 
presence  of  a  lady  ?  The  teacher  felt  all  the  time  that 
she  had  to  do  something  besides  huddle  back  with  the 
children,  though  that  was  what  she  would  best  like  to 
do, — she  had  to  take  the  situation  in  hand;  so  she 
came  with  a  book — a  primer — and  gave  it  to  Shack 
open,  and  stood  beside  him  quaking  and  pointed  out 
the  big  letters.  He  on  his  part  fixed  his  eyes  intently 
on  the  page,  as  if  he  would  burn  a  hole  through  the 
paper  with  his  glance,  yet  your  very  first  guess  would 
be,  looking  at  him,  that  he  saw  nothing  consciously. 
That  was  uncanny,  too, — it  suggested  lunacy.  What 
if  the  strange  man  were  a  lunatic  ? 

It  was  a  mighty  hard  position  for  a  little  young 
woman,  but  it  couldn't  last.  She  had  taken  measures 
almost  at  once, — had  whispered  stealthily  to  her 
most  dependable  boy,  to  go  for  help;  and  the  boy,  his 
feet  winged  with  terror,  had  gone.  His  departure  was 
attended  with  some  little  confusion,  but  Shack  didn't 
look  up  from  his  letters.  He  didn't  look  up  when  the 
boy  returned,  either,  though  he  brought  a  brawny, 
thick-whiskered  farmer  with  him,  who  stamped  in 
abruptly,  making  much  noise.  It  seemed  an  age  be- 
fore deliverance  came,  with  that  terrifying  figure 
squat  against  the  wall,  motionless, — that  was  about 
the  worst,  his  sitting  there  so  still,  as  if  he  weren't 
flesh  and  blood  at  all ;  yet  it  came  at  last.  The  farmer 
was  astonished,  but  not  at  all  frightened.  He  went 
boldly  up  and  laid  his  hand  on  Shack's  shoulder,  in 
no  gentle  fashion. 

"  Now,  then !  "  he  said,  brusquely. 

The  wayfarer  had  journeyed  far,  over  poor  roads, 
with  food  and  shelter  uncertainly  vouchsafed, — that 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  27 

accounted  for  much.  Perhaps  the  phases  of  the  moon 
were  just  right,  to  account  for  still  more.  At  all 
events  what  followed  would  have  diverted  the  lumber- 
jacks hugely, — Shack  sprang  into  the  air,  and  yelled 
and  turned  livid,  and,  by  way  of  finishing  touch,  to  fill 
out  the  largest  measure  of  entertainment,  fell  foaming 
and  insensible.  That  was  something  quite  new.  He 
had  never  been  known  to  lose  consciousness  before. 

Of  course  the  teacher  screeched,  and  the  children 
with  her.  Even  the  sturdy  farmer  was  startled  and  dis- 
turbed, and  scarce  knew  what  to  do.  You  can  imagine 
the  scene,  the  strange  incident  culminating  in  so  super- 
latively strange  a  manner, — not  a  person  there  would 
forget  it  to  his  or  her  dying  day.  But  in  a  moment 
the  farmer  bethought  himself  to  send  boys  scurrying 
for  more  help,  and  especially  for  a  wagon;  and  the 
little  teacher,  moved  by  the  compassion  which  is 
stronger  even  than  fear  in  the  breast  of  woman,  came 
forward  anxiously  and  proposed  that  they  go  for  Dr. 
Robert  (pronounced  Rowbear,  because  the  doctor  was 
a  Frenchman  proud  of  his  race).  She  had  the  pres- 
ence of  mind,  too,  to  bathe  Shack's  face  in  cold  water, 
and  only  drew  back  when  he  opened  his  dark  eyes  and 
looked  up  at  her  rather  wildly.  However,  his  opening 
his  eyes  made  him  out  to  be  in  no  very  bad  way, — 
only  dazed  and  stupid,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  a 
heavy  blow ;  and  there  was  really  no  occasion  for 
bathing  his  face  any  more.  He  made  no  effort  to  rise, 
and  when  the  wagon  came,  and  they  loaded  him  into 
it,  he  offered  no  resistance,  but  listlessly  suffered  them 
to  do  with  him  as  they  would.  They  were  a  bit  rough, 
— you  know  how  it  is  with  men,  even  when  they  mean 
kindly ;  and  two  or  three  times,  as  she  stood  by,  look- 
ing on,  the  teacher  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  oh !  "  and  wrung 


28  Shack 

her  hands  a  little,  and  seemed  about  ready  to  cry. 
Shack's  Bible  had  dropped  out  of  his  pocket,  and  they 
were  driving  off,  when  she  came  running  after  them, 
with  the  book  in  her  hand.  Her  compassion  was  very 
much  in  evidence, — she  was  very  sorry  for  him,  for  all 
the  fright  he  had  given  her.  He  took  the  Bible  from 
her  without  a  word,  absently,  as  if  his  wits  were  not 
fully  recovered,  or  else  he  didn't  care  any  more. 

They  conveyed  him  to  their  poor-farm.  That  was 
the  only  place,  except  the  county  jail.  They  might 
have  put  him  in  jail,  since  he  was  a  vagrant,  with 
the  proofs  of  his  vagrancy  upon  him,  but  there  was 
more  to  be  considered.  An  inmate  of  the  jail  was  a 
sheer  charge  on  the  public  funds,  whereas  an  inmate 
of  the  poor- farm  might  be  got  to  work  and  pay  some 
portion,  if  not  all,  of  his  keep.  And  possibly  there 
was  a  touch  of  kindness  in  their  choice, — the  poor- 
farm  was  more  of  a  home  than  the  jail,  even  though 
it  should  not  be  a  place  where  a  wandering  waif 
might  learn  to  read  the  word  of  God,  either  in  print 
or  as  it  is  written  on  the  fleshy  tablets  of  the  heart. 

Shack  rallied  quickly.  By  the  time  they  arrived  at 
the  poor-farm,  he  could  sit  up  in  the  wagon,  and  he 
got  out  without  assistance.  They  pointed  him  to  a 
squalid  corner  where  he  might  lie  down,  and  he  slept 
there  all  the  rest  of  the  day  and  through  the  night; 
and  he  awoke  restored,  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 

You  will  guess,  perhaps,  that  he  didn't  tarry  long 
in  those  precincts.  He  was  under  no  constraint  to  stay, 
— the  authorities  were  only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  a 
pauper,  and  especially  of  a  pauper  who,  like  Shack, 
was  not  of  the  parish  but  a  wanderer  from  no  man 
knew  where.  On  the  contrary  there  was  plenty  to 
prompt  him  to  move  on, — to  say  nothing  of  the 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon          29 

repulsive  surroundings,  there  was  the  mere  Indian  of 
him,  impatient  of  orderly  living  and  monotony.  Yet 
tarry  he  did,  not  only  for  days,  but  weeks,  and  months, 
till  more  than  a  year  had  passed. 

That  was  because  of  the  fancy  he  took  to  Sam 
Jackson. 

Sam  was  not  an  attractive  personality,  either,  by 
any  ordinary  test.  He  was  easily  the  most  luckless  of 
all  that  luckless  crew  of  dependents, — a  hulking 
giant  of  a  fellow  whose  back  had  been  broken  by  a 
fall.  It  was  a  dreadful  injury  and  the  doctors  had 
given  the  man  but  a  few  hours  to  live,  yet  he  was  still 
living.  Anyway,  there  was  still  breath  in  him,  though 
not  much  more.  In  many  respects  he  would  never  be 
deader.  Not  a  muscle  could  he  move  below  the  shoul- 
ders, either  of  arm  or  leg,  nor  had  he  any  feeling 
whatever  in  his  body.  But  he  could  eat,  if  he  was 
fed.  Friends  he  had  none  who  would  stand  by  him 
in  such  an  extremity,  and  he  went  to  the  poor-farm, 
to  take  his  chances  of  neglect,  for  everybody  loathed 
him  and  shunned  him.  Why  not?  He  was  loath- 
some enough. 

That  is  to  say,  everybody  until  Shack  came. 

Shack  took  to  this  clod  of  unclean  mortality  from 
the  first.  That  which  sorely  disgusted  everyone  else 
affected  him  with  some  perverse  charm,  until  you 
could  believe  he  was  actually  fond  of  Sam  Jackson. 
No  parent  could  be  more  indulgent  with  a  child  than 
Shack  was  with  Sam.  He  gave  himself  up  to  waiting 
on  Sam's  whims,  and  though  they  multiplied  as  they 
were  humored,  he  never  grew  weary.  All  day  he 
hovered  over  Sam's  bed,  eagerly  watching  for  some- 
thing to  do  to  promote  his  comfort;  and  by  night  he 
slept  at  Sam's  feet,  like  a  faithful  dog.  He  got  poor 


^o  Shack 

thanks.  His  freakish  devotion  lifted  a  great  burden 
off  the  keeper  of  the  farm,  and  won,  by  that,  a  certain 
reluctant  appreciation.  The  keeper  heartily  despised 
Shack  for  a  fool,  but  looked  on  him  as  a  godsend, 
nevertheless,  and  showed  him  grudging  favors 
designed  to  make  him  stay.  That  was  a  species  of 
thanks,  but  further  he  got  none.  Sam  Jackson  him- 
self repaid  his  lavish  kindness  with  the  sourest  toler- 
ance, and  with  curses,  when  his  disabled  tongue  could 
utter  them.  He  had  less  sense  of  his  own  interest 
than  the  keeper  and  did  absolutely  nothing  to  make 
Shack  stay. 

But  to  this  singular  connection,  as  to  all  things  else, 
there  came  an  end  at  length.  One  fatal  day  Sam  es- 
sayed to  swear  and  swallow  his  dinner  at  the  same 
time  and  brought  on  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  such 
that  he  very  soon  collapsed.  Shack  raced  away  to 
give  the  alarm,  but  the  keeper  was  altogether  indif- 
ferent. He  would  hardly  consent  to  go  up  and  see 
the  man,  and  when  he  did  it  was  only  to  look  cal- 
lously on  the  agony  of  death,  for  such  it  plainly  was* 
unless  help  should  come  soon.  Send  for  a  doctor? 
Not  he!  Not  in  a  thousand  years!  Not  on  your 
photograph  would  he  send  for  a  doctor  to  save  Sam 
Jackson,  who  was  better  dead  than  alive, — who  should 
have  died  long  ago,  and  would  have  done  so  only  that 
he  was  the  bullheadedest —  The  keeper  ran  on  at  con- 
siderable length,  and  worked  himself  into  quite  a 
temper  over  the  suggestion  that  useless  bills  be  run 
up  on  account  of  a  fellow  wrho  had  already  cost  the 
county  a  mighty  sight  more  than  he  was  worth. 

The  paupers  stood  round,  listening,  but  Shack  was 
not  among  them.  Just  when  he  left,  none  knew,  but 
when  they  had  heard  the  keeper  out  and  were  slinking 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  31 

away,  it  developed  that  there  was  nobody  to  stay  with 
Sam, — Shack  had  vanished  and  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  No  great  embarrassment  resulted,  however. 
Paupers,  vaguely  designated  as  some  of  you  fellers, 
were  detailed  for  the  service,  but  as  soon  as  the 
keeper's  back  was  turned  they  deserted  their  post  and 
left  Sam  to  fight  it  out  alone.  Shack  was  pretty  much 
forgotten  when  suddenly,  some  hours  later,  he  put  in 
an  appearance,  coming  in  the  Indian  style  like  a  dry 
leaf  before  the  wind,  with  Dr.  Robert  driving  at  his 
heels.  Whence  and  wherefore  he  had  gone  stood 
thus  revealed,  even  to  the  dull  pauper  mind, — he  had 
gone  to  summon  the  doctor,  and  the  doctor's  home 
was  a  good  ten  miles  off. 

The  keeper  was  furious.  He'd  a  mind,  he  declared, 
to  cut  the  bloody  heart  out  of  the  bloody  pauper  who 
knew  so  little  how  to  attend  to  his  own  bloody  busi- 
ness. To  this  sanguinary  talk  Shack  listened  un- 
troubled, but  when  the  keeper  blustered  to  the  doctor, 
vowing  he  should  have  no  pay  for  his  visit  since  no- 
body in  authority  had  called  him,  that  was  different, 
and  Shack  was  visibly  alarmed.  But  the  doctor  made 
answer  that  he  didn't  care  so  much  about  pay  if  there 
was  somebody  who  needed  him,  whereat  Shack  was 
even  more  visibly  rejoiced,  and  hastened  to  lead  the 
way  up  to  the  attic,  where  Sam  had  his  bed. 

The  man  was  dead,  and  cold.  He  had  been  dead 
a  long  time,  the  doctor  said.  "  I  have  doubt,"  you 
would  know  Dr.  Robert  was  a  Frenchman  at  once 
you  heard  him  speak,  "  I  have  doubt  could  I  have 
save  him.  His  life  was  hang  by  the  slender  thread." 

The  keeper  growled  that  he  was  better  dead.  The 
paupers,  standing  about,  were  not  sorry, — awed,  in  a 
way,  perhaps,  but  not  sorry. 


32  Shack 

And  why  should  there  be  any  regrets,  after  all? 
It  would  be  hard  to  say,  hard  to  assign  a  reason  why. 
Shack  stood  by  the  bed,  looking  down  on  the  face  of 
the  dead,  and  when  they  saw  him  dropping  tears,  and 
pretty  copiously,  too,  they  deemed  it  wonderfully 
strange,  the  keeper,  the  paupers,  the  doctor, — espe- 
cially the  doctor.  He  whispered  and  asked  if  they  two 
had  been  relatives,  the  dead  man  and  the  man  who 
wept ;  and  he  was  amazed  to  be  informed  that  they  had 
not  so  much  as  known  each  other,  until  lately. 

"  Bugs !  "  said  the  keeper,  and  jerked  his  thumb 
toward  Shack,  with  a  wink. 

The  doctor  got  into  his  buggy  and  drove  away.  It 
was  a  covered  buggy,  with  the  top  turned  back, — he 
could  not  see  behind  it  without  standing  up,  and  he 
was  not  likely  to  stand  up,  the  way  he  drove.  His 
cattle  were  two  lithe,  hardy  bronchos,  and  he  pushed 
them  along  about  as  fast  as  they  could  cover  the 
ground.  The  roads  were  deep  and  heavy  with  mud 
all  the  distance. 

When  he  drew  up  at  his  home,  after  near  two  hours 
of  hard  riding,  and  before  he  had  time  to  alight,  a 
man  came  out  from  behind  the  buggy.  He  made  a 
startling  apparition,  daubed  as  he  was  from  head  to 
foot  with  wet  clay,— clay  in  his  hair,  clay  splotched 
all  over  his  face. 

It  was  Shack.  He  had  run  behind  the  buggy  from 
the  poor-farm. 

The  doctor  remembered  him. 

"  Ah,  you  are  here  then !  "  he  said,  looking  down  in 
kindly  astonishment. 

"  You  will  show  me  how  to  read  this  book,"  said 
Shack,  and  held  up  the  sky-pilot's  Bible. 

He  spoke  confidently,  as  having  no  doubt  whatever. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  PHYSICIAN  FOR  HEALING 

IF  Shack  was  an  odd  stick,  Dr.  Robert  was  odd, 
too, — so  much,  if  no  more,  these  two  had  in  common. 
To  belong  to  an  ancient  and  wealthy  family  (the 
Roberts  had  come  in  with  the  missionaries  or  very 
soon  after,  to  buy  furs  at  an  enormous  profit  and  take 
up  lands  for  a  song  which  should  one  day  be  worth 
a  fabulous  fortune)  ;  to  go  abroad  and  study  medicine 
at  the  best  schools  of  Paris  and  Vienna;  and  then, 
at  last,  with  all  the  world  to  choose  from,  to  settle 
down  in  the  obscurest  of  crossroads  hamlets,  staying 
there  year  after  year  though  his  practice  yielded  him 
but  the  scantiest  living, — could  anything  make  a  man 
out  much  odder?  < 

Yet  that  was  Dr.  Robert,  and  it  was  only  the  begin- 
ning of  his  oddity.  He  was  little  and  black  and  thin 
and  wiry,  but  most  of  all  was  that  trick  of  singularity, 
— he  certainly  had  it. 

A  man  may  be  queer,  yet  have  a  constancy  whereby 
after  some  accquaintance  with  him,  you  get  to  under- 
stand about  how  to  take  him;  but  it  wasn't  at  all  so 
with  Dr.  Robert.  He  had  you  completely  bewildered, 
no  matter  how  long  you  had  known  him.  If  you  set 
him  down  for  one  thing,  he  straightway  showed  him- 
self another.  To  be  sure  he  was  always  kind,  but  even 

33 


34  Shack 

at  that  he  was  full  of  surprises.  Though  a  manner  of 
seraphic  sweetness  should  sugar  over  his  kindness  to- 
day, there  would  be  no  telling  about  to-morrow,  or  an 
hour  hence, — as  likely  as  not  he  would  overlay  his  next 
favor  with  such  a  crustiness  as  to  make  you  doubt  his 
good  intentions.  You  couldn't  count  with  entire  as- 
surance on  his  French  politeness,  even,  though  that 
was  undeniably  a  strong  habit  with  him.  He  assumed 
to  be  rather  more  than  a  doctor  of  medicine  among 
his  people, — some  thought  he  assumed  too  much,  at 
times.  In  point  there  was  the  case  of  the  certain 
woman  who  found  herself  in  the  predicament  of  the 
venerable  female  who  lived  in  a  shoe, — that  is  to  say, 
she  had  so  many  children  she  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
She  was  of  the  clay  to  be  embittered  by  her  burdens, 
and  she  made  her  household  very  uncomfortable,  par- 
ticularly her  husband,  who  at  length  consulted  Dr. 
Robert  in  the  view  that  his  wife  was  perhaps  a  little 
insane. 

The  doctor  went  at  once,  and  expostulated  with  the 
woman,  all  in  his  suavest  manner.  But  she  was  not 
pleased  at  being  taken  to  task,  however  gently,  and 
flared  back  at  him  angrily. 

"  Why  should  I  make  a  beast  of  burden  of  my- 
self?" she  demanded. 

"  Because,  my  dear,"  for  all  his  learning  the  doctor 
could  neither  speak  nor  write  English  without  a  quaint 
French  coloring,  and  such  spoony  phrases  were  a  part 
of  it,  "  because,  my  dear,  it  is  precisely  the  duty  of 
you." 

The  woman  sniffed.    What  was  duty  to  her? 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  duty  is  our  bridge  to  heaven !  " 

Robert  was  reputed  an  unbeliever.  How  did  it  lie  in 
an  unbeliever's  mouth  to  be  preaching  about  heaven? 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  35 

The  woman  caught  at  the  inconsistency  and  threw  it 
up  at  him. 

He  was  determined  to  be  sweet  that  day.  "  Ah,  my 
dear,"  quoth  he,  "  it  is  not  by  any  means  the  heaven  of 
the  theologians.  Not  in  the  little !  The  heaven,  under- 
stand me,  of  the  here  and  the  now.  Life  he  would 
be  one  desolate  affair  without  duties  to  do.  You  are 
fortunate  for  being  the  woman,  and  a  mother,  for  that 
the  duty  of  the  mother  is  without  doubt  the  most  per- 
fect bridge  of  all.  If  you  were  to  lose  your  children, 
you  would  perceive  what  I  say." 

Quite  a  number  were  of  the  opinion  that  Dr.  Robert 
was  out  of  his  place  giving  advice  of  that  sort.  What 
man,  and  especially  what  unmarried  man,  could  under- 
stand whereof  he  ventured  so  airily  to  speak  ? 

He  lived  all  alone  in  a  rude  cabin  builded  with  his 
own  hands, — a  home  as  odd  as  the  man  who  dwelt  in 
it.  It  was  so  open  to  the  weather  that  public  sentiment 
pronounced  it  unfit  for  human  habitation;  but  if  you 
proposed  any  such  misgivings  to  him,  he  would  laugh 
at  you,  and  quote  a  famous  Irish  physician  (Robert 
insisted  that  he  was  famous  and  a  high  authority 
though  nobody  else  had  ever  heard  of  him), — a  Dr. 
Lyne,  who  taught  that  a  house,  in  order  to  be  rightly 
habitable,  should  have  never  a  door  which  a  dog 
mightn't  crawl  in  under,  or  a  window  which  a  bird 
mightn't  fly  out  at.  And  one  thing  was  undeniable, — 
Dr.  Robert  kept  wonderfully  good  health.  The  story 
went  that  he  was  never  sick,  never  so  much  as  had  a 
cold.  During  the  historic  epidemic  of  black  diph- 
theria, the  slightest  contact  with  which  meant  deadly 
infection  to  everybody  else,  he  came  off  unscathed, 
though  he  went  as  he  was  called,  and  was  often  nurse 
as  well  as  physician.  Two  other  doctors,  within  fifty 


36  Shack 

miles,  died  of  the  plague,  and  they  had  sprinkled  them- 
selves endlessly  with  disinfectants,  whereas  Robert 
took  no  such  precautions. 

Both  within  and  without  it  was  an  extraordinary 
cabin.  You  were  struck,  on  entering,  with  the  bare 
rafters,  unadorned  except  by  plentiful  cobwebs  heavily 
hung  with  dust ;  and  with  the  studding,  likewise  bare, 
but  filled  all  round  with  books.  Countryfolks  were 
awed  by  the  array  of  books,  and  forced  to  a  high  re- 
spect for  the  learning  betokened ;  but  quite  differently 
affected  by  the  litter  on  the  floor,  of  ashes,  and  chips 
of  firewood,  and  sand  brought  in  by  careless  feet, — the 
accumulation  of  years,  it  was  thought.  Sometimes, 
when  he  was  in  the  mood,  and  there  were  women 
present,  the  doctor  would  have  a  word  of  apology  for 
the  dirt. 

"  The  man-beast  who  shall  be  unblessed  by  feminine 
companionship,"  he  would  say,  bobbing  his  funny 
little  bow,  "  he  will  procure  himself  to  live  on  the  very 
friendly  terms  with  much  dirt.  And  is  dirt  so  the  ter- 
rible thing,  after  all?  Ha!  If  you  let  him  be,  in  the 
place  which  he  will  choose  to  lie,  he  will  do  me  no 
harm,  positively  not.  He  is  thick  upon  my  floor,  but 
does  he  incommode  me?  No!  Only  as  I  should  stir 
him  up,  with  my  broom,  and  render  him  angry  and 
malignant  with  my  poking,  would  he  settle  on  my 
books  and  my  papers,  to  bother  me  much.  Quieta  non 
movere,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

The  Latin  was  a  deft  touch,  though  unconsciously 
so.  Of  all  the  doctor's  sophistries  this  did  most  to 
give  the  women  a  feeling  that  his  flagrant  disregard 
of  the  conventions  was  somehow  justified. 

Women  had  something  of  a  grudge  against  him,  to 
begin  with.  How  should  they  not  take  it  as  a  species 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  37 

of  affront  to  their  sex  that  he  had  never  married  and, 
to  all  appearances,  was  bent  on  not  marrying  ?  A  man 
living  alone,  year  after  year,  and  giving  every  indica- 
tion of  enjoying  himself  notwithstanding,  he  as  good 
as  accuses  womenkind  of  being  superfluous,  and  no- 
body likes  to  be  accused  of  being  superfluous.  But 
with  the  doctor's  youth,  as  insensibly  and  not  less  cer- 
tainly, that  grudge  had  passed.  By  degrees  the  women 
came  to  look  on  Robert  as  a  man  dispensed  from 
matrimony ;  and  they  were  the  more  easily  appeased  as 
it  appeared  that  the  woman  who  should  become  the 
wife  of  so  odd  a  stick  would  fall  upon  anything  but  a 
happy  lot.  The  doctor  would  be  kind  to  his  wife,  in 
the  uncertain  way  he  was  kind  to  all,  but  beyond  that 
— well,  women  had  long  since  given  up  quarreling  with 
Robert's  singleness. 

No  diploma  hung  on  his  walls.  Most  doctors,  es- 
pecially of  late  years,  were  proud  to  display  diplomas, 
for  a  testimony;  but  if  Dr.  Robert  had  such  a  thing 
he  kept  it  out  of  sight.  There  were  those  who  believed 
he  had  none, — the  other  doctors  almost  to  a  man ;  they 
didn't  like  him,  they  accused  him  of  violating  the  code 
of  professional  ethics,  and  they  did  not  scruple  to  inti- 
mate that  he  would  be  excluded  from  practice  only 
that  he  had  been  a  professing  physician  for  more  than 
fifteen  years  and  was  thereby  prescriptively  exempt 
from  the  operation  of  the  law  requiring  a  medical  man 
to  show  a  diploma  or  stand  examination.  Possibly 
there  was  something  in  it, — certainly  he  made  no 
great  parade  of  technical  knowledge  and  seemed  to 
discredit,  rather  than  otherwise,  much  of  the  advanced 
theory  of  healing.  He  openly  confessed  his  inability 
to  cure  every  ill  flesh  is  heir  to,  and  declared  over  and 
over  that  temperance  in  all  things  was  the  beginning 


38  Shack 

and  the  end  of  good  health.  And  particularly  was  it 
his  custom  to  warn  his  patients,  no  matter  what  their 
ailment,  that  they  were  digging  their  graves  with  their 
teeth,  by  which  he  meant  that  they  lived  not  wisely  but 
too  well, — ate  too  much,  in  short. 

He  was  modest  in  his  charges, — beyond  all  example 
modest. 

Instances  without  number  had  gone  into  tradition. 
One,  called  to  mind  as  often  as  any,  perhaps,  was  that 
of  a  man  who  had  something  the  matter  with  his  eye, 
something  so  afflicting  that  he  went  to  the  city  for  re- 
lief, and  consulted  a  famous  specialist.  The  specialist 
held  out  small  hope,  wanted  $75  for  a  preliminary  oper- 
ation and  no  telling  how  much  more,  and  the  man 
backed  out, — he  was  poor  and  such  talk  frightened 
him.  As  the  drowing  man  clutches  at  a  straw  he  took 
his  eye  to  Dr.  Robert.  Could  he  do  anything  for  it? 
Well,  he  could  try,  at  all  events,  and  try  he  did.  That 
is,  he  resorted  copiously  to  warm  water,  and  very  little 
else,  and  told  the  man  to  come  back  in  a  week.  In  a 
week  the  eye  was  about  well.  How  much?  Oh, 
twenty-five  cents,  quoth  Dr.  Robert. 

Another  instance  was  that  of  a  half-grown  girl,  who 
fell  and  hurt  her  leg,  and  lay  in  bed  with  it  for  months, 
and  though  she  got  up  at  last,  walked  but  hardly,  with 
crutches.  They  took  her  to  the  specialists,  too,  and  the 
specialists  were  for  operating,  right  away.  How 
much?  Well,  $100, — since  the  people  were  poor;  if 
they  had  been  rich  it  would  be  $1,000, — specialists 
weren't  wholly  devoid  of  the  bowels  of  mercy.  But 
the  operation  would  leave  the  girl  a  cripple,  and  her 
father  and  mother  shrank  from  that,  and  came  home, 
and  consulted  Dr.  Robert, — clutching  at  the  last  straw. 
What  did  he  think?  Why,  that  the  girl  only  fancied 


By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  39 

she  was  lame,  was  under  some  sort  of  hysterical  de- 
lusion, not  an  uncommon  thing  at  her  age.  He  took 
her  in  hand,  adroitly,  won  her  confidence,  beguiled  her 
into  trying  to  walk, — and  before  very  long  she  was  as 
well  as  ever.  What  was  his  fee?  Oh,  nothing! — he 
had  done  nothing,  why  should  he  charge  a  fee? 

Over  the  doctor's  head,  as  he  sat  by  his  rough  pine 
table  to  minister  to  his  neighbors  with  much  of  counsel 
and  little  of  drugs,  there  was  a  sheet  of  cardboard 
tacked  up,  with  these  words  printed  on  it,  in  large 
letters,  with  an  unskilled  pen : 

"  Hers,  was  willst  du  mehrf  " 

The  countryside  never  quite  settled,  in  its  own  mind, 
the  significance  of  this  inscription,  or,  for  that  matter, 
its  origin.  Some  called  it  Latin,  some  called  it  Greek, 
and  a  few,  who  had  heard  of  Hebrew,  called  it 
Hebrew.  There  were  no  Germans  in  those  parts,  as  it 
chanced,  and  the  sentiment  remained  a  mystery  through 
all  the  years.  None  thought  of  asking  the  doctor 
about  that  or  any  other  matter  personal  to  himself, — 
in  that  quarter  curiosity  knew  itself  helpless. 

But  two  other  sheets  of  cardboard  likewise  nailed 
up,  were  in  plain  English,  such  that  he  might  read  who 
ran: 

"  Disappointment  is  the  same  sort  of  tonic  for  the 
soul  that  Hardship  is  for  the  body." 

And: 

"  Blessed  is  the  strong  man  who  knows  Disap- 
pointment, for  he  shall  be  made  stronger." 

Un thoughtful  neighbors  were  perplexed  by  these 
proposals,  and  found  them  enigmatical  to  the  last. 
Still,  the  likelihood  was,  seeing  what  honor  was  given 


40  Shack 

them,  that  they  were  distillations  of  wisdom.  Some 
minute  critic  or  other  had  discovered  internal  evidence 
that  they  were  not  of  the  doctor's  own  getting  up,  — 
they  didn't  sound  Frenchy  enough  ;  most  likely  he  had 
copied  them  out  of  some  book. 

There  was  yet  more  oddity  nailed  up,  —  a  great  print 
portrait,  almost  life-size,  of  Pope  Leo  XIII,  in  his 
pontifical  robes.  That  was  the  occasion  of  perplexity, 
too.  Had  the  doctor  artfully  put  up  the  portrait  to 
flatter  the  Canadian  French,  who  were  numerous  there- 
abouts, and  all  strong  Catholics?  Hardly,  —  that 
wouldn't  be  like  him;  he  was  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  curry  favor.  Was  it  then  simply  because  he 
admired  the  gorgeous  colors?  The  printers  had  cer- 
tainly made  a  fine  show,  with  their  colors.  For  a 
cheap  lithograph,  it  was  remarkable. 


And  so,  oddly  enough,  these  two  odd  sticks  had 
come  together. 


BOOK  II 
DR.  ROBERT'S  DIARY 


DR.  ROBERT'S  DIARY 

6  of  March. 

IT  is  I,  Oliver  Robert,  who  set  down  these  remarks. 
They  concern  a  strange  being,  his  name  Jacques. 

He  knows  no  other  name. 

He  is  French  &  he  is  Indian.  He  is  also  something 
else.  He  tells  me  nearly  nothing,  only  that  he  has 
lived  in  the  pineries.  But  I  know  he  is  Indian, — the 
bones  of  his  face  are  that.  I  know  he  is  French, — it 
is  in  his  talk.  The  more  in  him,  what  it  may  be,  I 
know  not. 

I  saw  him  ist  on  yesterday  the  day  before. 

He  came  much  alarmed.  He  said :  "  There  is  a 
man  choking  himself  at  the  Poor  Farm ! " 

I  said:  "Very  well!" 

Thereupon  I  drove  thither.  I  would  willing  have 
take  the  strange  being  in  my  buggy,  only  he  was 
already  gone,  &  when  I  arrive  to  the  Poor  Farm,  he  is 
before  me.  It  is  ten  miles,  which  he  must  have  walk, 
or  run.  The  patient  he  was  died,  &  the  strange  being 
wept  over  him.  They  were  then  brothers,  or  at  all 
events  cousins  germans?  Not  so!  They  were  not 
known  to  themselves  before  recently. 

In  the  next  place  I  arrive  home.  I  alight  from  my 
buggy.  What  shall  I  now  behold  but  the  strange  be- 
ing! He  has  run  behind  from  the  Poor  Farm  which 
is  still  ten  miles  and  the  road  very  bad.  He  was  much 
mudded.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  sight! 

43 


44  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

Myself :     "  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

Strange  Being:     "Jacques!" 

By  that  I  knew  he  was  French.  He  spoke  the  name 
with  a  perfection. 

He  had  with  him  a  book.  In  it  he  wished  me  to 
teach  him,  how  that  he  should  read  it.  I  looked  at  the 
the  book.  It  was  the  Bible. 

Precisely  it  is  the  compatriot  of  Renan  which  I, 
Oliver  Robert,  am.  The  Christian  Church  is  a  dead 
corpse.  A  mummy,  embalmed  with  much  skill  in 
windings  of  ceremony  &  for  that  alone  suffered  to  re- 
main above  the  ground  among  the  living.  So  have  I 
made  up  my  mind.  What  is  the  Bible  to  me  that  I 
shall  teach  strange  beings  to  read  in  it? 

At  all  events  I  unhitch  my  horses.  I  put  them  in  the 
barn.  They  are  much  mudded  &  they  are  steam  with 
sweat.  I  go  into  the  loft  to  procure  them  hay.  I  come 
back.  What  do  I  behold  ?  Jacques  has  rub  the  horses 
with  straw  till  they  are  dry  &  clean. 

Excellent ! 

I  declared,  with  a  laugh :    "  It  is  the  first  time !  " 

Beyond  the  doubt  I  am  shameful  with  my  horses. 
I  feed  them  well,  it  is  likely.  Yet  I  never  rub 
them.  Vita  brevls! 

I  said :    "  Come !  "  &  we  proceed  into  the  house. 

I  consider  the  matter  of  supper.  What  have  we  for 
supper  to-night?  I  asked  myself  this  forthwith. 

I  peer  into  my  cupboard.  What  do  I  behold?  A 
kettle  filled  in  part  with  cold  mush.  Some  milk.  A 
small  quantity  of  butter.  Tea.  For  the  making  wel- 
come a  guest  it  is  not  much.  However,  it  must  suffice. 
I  go  to  the  stove.  A  fire  is  necessary,  for  the  tea. 

I  feel  a  touch.  I  turn.  It  is  Jacques.  He  exclaims : 
"Me!" 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  45 

He  taps  his  breast.  I  understand  him.  It  is  like  a 
Frenchman  to  speak  with  his  hand,  &  like  another 
Frenchman  to  understand  him.  I  say :  "  Very  well !  " 
I  sit  down. 

He  lights  the  fire,  adroitly.  He  find  an  old  pan.  In 
this  he  melt  a  little  of  the  butter.  He  cut  the  cold 
mush  in  delicate  slices,  after  which,  in  the  butter,  he 
fry  them,  till  they  are  crisp  &  brown.  He  make  the 
tea  in  a  manner  such  that  my  cabin  has  the  sweet  savor 
filling  it  &  my  nostrils  are  rejoiced  exceedingly.  From 
the  cupboard  he  bring  2  cups,  I  plate,  2  knives,  which 
he  lay  on  the  table.  At  length  he  say :  "  Supper  is 
ready!" 

I  reply:    "So  am  I!" 

It  is  true  I  pronounce  fried  food  unwholesome. 
Yet  I  find  myself  devouring  the  mush.  I  am  ready 
to  conjecture  that  I  have  tasted  nothing  so  good  in 
long  years. 

I  observe,  frankly :  "HI  dig  my  grave  with  my 
teeth,  the  time  is  at  hand  when  I  should  be  digging  it 
with  something.  I  shall  have  use  for  it,  in  the  pres- 
ently." 

I  am  facetious,  yet  the  strange  being  does  not  laugh. 
Such  is  the  Indian.  The  Indian  laughs  not  with 
humor  and  merriment,  only  with  scorn. 

In  the  pineries  very  good  cookery  will  be  found. 
By  this  they  keep  the  men  in  contentment.  In  the 
lonesomeness  the  men  will  become  downcast  &  medi- 
tate leaving  their  work,  only  for  the  good  cookery. 
Cooks  are  employed  who  will  prepare  a  tasteful  din- 
ner. It  is  of  these  Jacques  learned  the  art,  I  am 
assure. 

He  is  cook  for  me  &  yet  more.  To-day,  I  being 
absent,  he  sweeps  the  floor.  It  is  like  a  new  house.  I 


46  Dr.   Robert's   Diary 

enter  &  I  am  in  doubt.  Is  it  my  house  which  I  have 
come  home  to?  The  floor  is  spotless.  But  the  dust? 
There  is  no  bit  of  it  to  see. 

To-night  I  have  talk  with  him  more  searchingly.  I 
resolve  to  begin  with  teaching  him  French.  It  is  his 
proper  vehicle.  The  English  it  is  strong.  But  where 
there  is  a  delicacy,  shall  it  be  convey  in  a  lumber- 
wagon  ? 

17  of  March. 

A  soul  in  fetters!  As  well  it  may  be  a  great  soul. 
Who  knows? 

I  dare  question  if  such  position  ever  was  before. 

A  bird,  imprisoned.  Peradventure  an  eagle.  No, 
I  will  believe  it  a  gentler  soul  than  that.  Some  bird 
rather  with  sweet  songs  in  its  throat  silenced  by  cap- 
tivity! It  strive  for  freedom  that  it  may  utter  forth 
its  music.  That  is  the  position. 

Especially,  this  soul  up  till  yet  finds  no  fit  tongue, 
such  as  it  may  hold  communion  by  means  of,  either 
with  itself,  or  with  another.  For  the  lack  of  a 
tongue  it  has  never  yet  spoken.  English  is  good,  for 
the  Englishman.  For  the  Frenchman,  it  is  the  lumber- 
wagon.  Why  then  do  I  employ  it?  That  I  may 
speak  with  my  people.  Besides,  I  have  nothing  but 
lumber  to  convey.  With  Jacques  it  is  otherwise. 

He  has  the  Indian  tongue,  but  the  Indian  is  nothing. 
The  grunting  of  beasts,  little  more. 

But  when  I  speak  to  Jacques  in  French  for  the  first 
time,  he  holds  his  breath  with  listening.  He  is  radi- 
ant, as  if  he  hear  the  voice  once  more  of  his  beloved 
long  lost.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  the  ist  time  he  hear 
the  language  of  Moliere,  of  Voltaire,  of  Hugo.  Yet 
almost  he  understand  me. 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  47 

I  have  teach  him  the  French  words  for  objects,  & 
he  was  overjoy  to  say  them  over  &  over.  When 
he  have  learn  enough  to  answer  me  back,  his  delight 
was  nearly  frantic. 

Again!  From  this  moment  he  speaks  English  less 
well.  To-day  he  speak  it  brokenly,  like  a  new  French- 
man. I  have  need  to  take  care.  He  will  have  use 
for  the  English. 

This  I  remember  when  it  bethinks  me  to  procure 
him  a  French  Bible.  To  read  the  Bible  he  is  anxious, 
&  with  French  he  will  get  on  fast,  but  there  is  more. 
No,  we  shall  keep  the  Bible  in  English.  So  I  dec.'de. 
I  read  from  the  Bible  to  him,  turning  a  word  into 
French  now  and  again.  The  French  for  the  delicacy, 
the  English  for  the  lumber,  if  he  have  the  both  that 
will  be  well. 

3  of  April. 

Like  a  candle  guttering!  The  fat  wastes  with  the 
flame  which  flare  up.  Better  for  him  to  burn  in  a 
steady  fashion.  No,  that  would  make  of  him  the 
ordinary  person. 

He  is  restless. 

In  his  body  he  is  frail.  Yet  he  ran  behind  the 
buggy  ten  miles.  He  have  already  before  then  run, 
or  walk,  twenty  miles.  He  was  not  exhausted  after 
all.  Nervous !  Strength  of  the  nerve,  summoned  up. 

Bodily  much  is  wrong  with  him.  His  heart,  how- 
ever, is  worst. 

It  is  too  slow.     Again   it  is   too   fast. 

When  his  heart  is  slow,  you  will  deem  him  a  simple- 
ton, no  more.  He  is  then  dull  &  sluggish.  But  when 
his  heart  is  fast,  his  mood  grow  high.  He  is  exalted, 
like  no  man  I  ever  met  with.  How  his  eyes  light 
up! 


48  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

Though  with  nothing  or  little  of  the  intellect.  All 
is  feeling. 

To  what  end?     I  have  ask  myself  that. 

He  babbles  at  times  till  I  fear  him  to  become  a  luna- 
tic. He  makes  strife  to  tell  me  something,  in  words. 
It  is  something  of  his  feeling.  But  his  words  are 
drivel.  However,  he  affects  me.  In  his  high  mood 
there  flow  from  him  a  feeling,  an  emotion,  such  that 
I  am  touch  by  it.  In  a  manner  am  I  carried  away.  I 
am  aware  of  a  new  principle  of  conviction  working 
within  me.  He  will  almost  make  me  believe  without 
reason.  Yet  what?  Not  yet  does  it  appear. 

He  is  restless  more  and  more.  The  spring,  which 
wakens,  calls  to  him.  He  will  stand  in  the  posture  of 
listening,  as  if  voices  were  in  the  air.  Do  I  speak  to 
him  then,  he  answers  me  not.  Hears  me  not.  Nor 
sees. 

He  remains  the  Indian  in  much  respects.  Wood- 
craft he  understands  wonderfully.  He  will  snare  part- 
ridges, but  that  is  not  all.  He  has  a  club.  It  re- 
sembles the  boomerang  of  the  bushman.  With  his 
club  he  will  kill  wild  chickens  as  they  fly.  He  have 
the  scent  of  the  dog,  for  he  knows  when  chickens  are 
near,  in  the  manner  of  the  dog. 

He  will  fish  admirably.  The  bullheads,  as  he  pre- 
pares them,  are  admirable. 

Such  dining!  Feasts  of  Lucullus!  It  is  a  glutton 
I  am  become.  I  dig  my  grave  with  my  teeth,  but  now 
I  shall  need  it  larger,  so  fat  have  I  grown.  Accord- 
ingly, I  have  the  more  digging  to  do ! 

I  explain  this  joke  to  Jacques,  in  French  as  well  as 
English.  Yet  he  will  not  laugh.  It  is  too  merry. 

However,  I  have  hear  him  laugh.  He  will  have  me 
read  often  from  the  Bible.  I,  Oliver  Robert,  from 


Dr.   Robert's   Diary  49 

the  Bible!  One  day  it  is  of  Moses,  of  Jehovah  in  the 
burning  bush,  and  he  will  laugh.  It  is  scornful  laugh- 
ter. Sardonical. 

And  saying  nothing. 

When  he  is  disturbed  I  know  by  his  eyes,  &  by  his 
neck.  In  his  neck  the  great  artery  swells  &  throbs  till 
you  think  it  may  well  burst. 

15  of  July. 

We  live  in  a  bower.  Jacques  have  made  it  so.  It 
is  my  fashion  to  neglect  all.  Nux  erchetai!  The  little 
field  was  not  tilled  formerly.  I  had  not  the  taste  for 
husbandry  &  those  boys  whom  I  employ  they  took  my 
pay  and  will  give  me  but  small  services.  During  the 
last  summer  cows  pushed  down  the  fence  &  devoured 
the  corn  whereupon  I  was  resolved  to  plant  no  more. 

Jacques  mended  the  fence.  He  make  the  old  boards 
suffice  though  many  are  broken.  He  finds  posts,  I 
know  not  where.  The  expense  is  nothing.  Even  the 
old  nails  he  will  save,  making  each  of  them  straight 
with  much  pains.  But  withal  the  fence  is  not  hand- 
some. However,  he  is  not  done.  He  repair  to  the 
woods  &  procure  vines  of  the  wild  grape  to  set  out 
along  the  fence  &  they  spring  up  to  cover  it  wholly. 
The  house,  next!  From  the  woods  he  bring  likewise 
woodbine  to  plant  near  the  house  and  they  have  climb 
to  the  roof.  To  live  rightly  in  such  lodge  I  should 
be  a  poet. 

In  the  field  grow  all  manner  of  good  vegetables, 
with  no  weed  to  be  seen.  Here  and  there,  as  the  odd 
corner  will  present  itself,  he  has  a  flower  or  a  shrub, — 
all  from  the  woods.  What  may  he  not  find  in  those 
woods? 

His  babbling  embraces  much  mention  of  God.    His 


50  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

nature  have  of  the  religious  a  portion,  not  surpris- 
ingly, since  he  is  emotional. 

He  seeks  God,  who  eludes  him. 

You  will  say,  at  times,  that  the  God  he  yearn  to 
find  shall  perhaps  be  none  other  than  great  Pan,  who 
dwells  in  limpid  waters  &  rustling  airs,  in  leaves  & 
in  the  sward,  in  the  mounting  sap  which  is  the  life  of 
plants.  For  he  will  speak  confusedly  of  God  &  the 
Norway  (a  common  species  of  the  pine  tree),  of 
God  &  the  lake,  of  God  &  the  sun.  But  more  than 
all  is  his  delight  in  the  woods,  how  happy  among  his 
vines  &  his  vegetables.  Especial  peace  broods  over 
him. 

Not  for  long,  however.  That  which  he  seeks  is 
not  found. 

You  observe  him.  He  is  in  communion,  you  may 
say,  with  great  Pan.  The  especial  peace  is  upon  him. 
But  behold  it  is  presently  trouble,  like  the  surface  of 
the  waters.  For  the  first  place  a  soft  breeze  of  doubt 
will  blow  over.  There  will  be  a  cloud  form  in  his  face. 
He  pause.  He  hesitate.  He  look  about  him  while  the 
doubt  grow  stronger.  He  look  about  him  more  & 
more  as  one  who  is  lost  from  his  way.  At  length  he 
turn  away.  It  is  back  to  his  books.  I  come  upon 
him  toiling  among  them.  He  reads  here  and  there. 
He  brings  something  to  me  to  be  read. 

Mostly  it  is  the  Bible.  The  name  of  God  is  much 
there.  Very  often  he  hears  it  as  we  go  on.  He 
listen  intently.  But  his  brow  is  knit.  He  does  not 
start  up  in  recognition. 

He  is  eluded  &  yet  again  eluded. 

i  of  August. 

To-day  it  was  L'Etoile  du  Nord  which  he  brought 
me.  This  is  a  small  newspaper  which  is  printed  in 


Dr.   Robert's   Diary  51 

Quebec.  An  old  friend  who  is  very  Catholic  has  it 
sent  to  me,  for  the  good  of  my  soul,  since  it  is  very 
Catholic  likewise.  In  Quebec  all  is  very  Catholic. 
But  I  peruse  it  not  a  little,  inasmuch  as  it  is  print  in 
very  good  French.  No  patois. 

Jacques  he  enjoy  to  read  it,  too.  Because  it  is  very 
Catholic?  Well,  possibly!  The  very  Catholic — the 
very  emotional — it  is  a  connection,  not  impossible. 

Indeed,  he  pores  over  L'Etoile  du  Nord  until  he 
have  peruse,  I  daresay,  every  word. 

To-day,  as  I  have  remark,  he  bring  it  to  me  with  the 
beseechment  that  I  read  to  him  a  certain  article.  This 
is  an  article  of  length,  which  is  no  less  than  the  report 
of  a  falling  out,  a  rupture,  between  the  Church  and  the 
civil  power,  in  France.  The  Concordat  of  Napoleon, 
it  would  seem,  have  been  violated.  But  in  any  case, 
the  revenues  of  the  clergy  are  greatly  diminish,  such 
that  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  have  come  forth  with  an 
appeal  to  the  faithful  at  large.  He  will  have  the  faith- 
ful send  him  money,  that  he  may  support  his  clergy. 

It  is  the  bishop's  appeal  which  Jacques  wishes  me 
to  read.  He  has  read  it  for  himself,  but  he  will  make 
sure  he  has  it  right. 

Particularly  these  words : 

"  Some  of  my  priests  earn  their  living  by  mending 
watches  or  manufacturing  beehives.  Others  till  the 
soil,  knit  jerseys,  or  follow  agricultural  pursuits.  All 
that  is  not  very  noble  or  worthy  of  the  sacerdotal 
calling." 

I  have  never  seen  Jacques  so  indignant  up  till  yet. 
His  eyes  will  flash,  his  neck  throb  greatly. 

He  cries :    "  Why  is  it  not  noble  ?  " 

I  answer :  "  It  is  not  fashionable.  The  fashion 
rules  in  all  things.  The  fashion  is  for  the  priest  to 


52  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

keep  his  hands  white  for  the  service  of  God.  He  may 
not  soil  them,  with  the  hard  work  of  the  world,  or 
God  will  be  offended." 

I  am  bitter  ?  It  may  well  be.  But  I  regret.  Jacques 
stares  at  me,  he  turns  away  abruptly,  he  mutters  with 
many  gestures.  There  is  confusion  within  him,  I  have 
make  it  more  so.  I  regret  this. 

Should  I  ruthlessly  approach,  with  my  eyes  folded 
blind,  a  closet  stored  with  precious  porcelains?  It 
is  not  likely.  He  gropes,  but  who  am  I  to  guide  him, 
with  my  bitterness  ?  It  is  easy  to  make  the  youth  un- 
believers, but  wherefore?  Is  it  that  the  unbeliever 
is  so  happy  in  his  unbelief? 

He  is  in  the  forest.  He  will  work  his  own  way  out, 
however. 

Yet  we  may  sing  together  without  harm.  By  that 
he  is  soothed.  I  play  my  viol,  not,  indeed,  as  an  artist, 
but  with  sincerity.  I  sing.  Jacques,  he  too  has  the 
voice,  as  we  presently  discover.  He  joins  with  me  & 
it  is  much  comfort  while  no  porcelains  are  broken. 

1 6  of  August. 

(Since  i  week,  much  has  come  to  pass! 

Before  then,  he  was  begun  to  fall  away  from  the 
books.  Almost  I  may  say  he  shun  these.  His  coun- 
tenance wore  the  look  of  defeat,  of  chagrin.  It  was 
sullen.  He  consort  more  with  great  Pan,  but  to  what 
comfort?  Very  little.  If  he  went  often  to  the  woods, 
it  was  not  to  loiter,  to  drink  in  the  joy  of  the  place. 
Rather  was  it  to  flit,  in  the  manner  of  the  uneasy 
ghost. 

When  he  came  in  he  was  at  times  haggard.  Once 
he  was  wet  with  sweat. 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  53 

It  was  the  hour  of  desperate  searchings,  of  grop- 
ings.  The  barrier  was  before  him.  No  opening. 

He  suffered.  What  is  worse  than  conscious  impo- 
tence? I  had  pity,  why  should  I  not  go  to  his  aid? 

'But  no!  My  part  was  not  that.  I  might  provide 
him  with  his  vehicle,  namely,  the  French.  I  might 
read  to  him,  when  he  will  ask  me.  I  might  sing  with 
him,  to  soothe  him.  But  further,  nothing!  So  I 
told  myself. 

I  would  not  so  much  as  leave  certain  books  in  his 
way.  I  would  not  move  one  of  them  from  its  place 
in  order  that  he  might  the  more  or  the  less  encounter 
with  it.  No,  no !  Let  them  be  as  they  were.  To  that 
effect  I  made  my  determination. 

A  soul  was  being  born,  in  short.  I  was  but  the  mid- 
wife, not  the  parent! 

Yet  nevertheless,  since  i  week,  what  happens? 

This!  He  returns  from  the  woods,  it  is  possibly 
3  o'clock  in  the  P.  M.  Since  dinner  he  has  been 
out.  He  is  pallid,  breathless,  sweaty.  He  sinks 
into  a  chair.  He  stares  dully  before  him. 

His  eyes  wander  over  the  books.  I  observe  him 
and  my  belief  is  he  sees  nothing.  Soon,  however,  he 
gathers  his  attention  upon  a  certain  corner,  though 
it  should  be  but  languidly.  Afterwards  he  rises.  He 
walks  over.  He  takes  down  from  the  shelf  five 
volumes. 

They  are  the  five  volumes  of  Les  Miserdbles,  that 
chiefest  of  epics,  of  human  documents  the  very 
important. 

It  is  not  in  the  least  of  my  doing.  It  was  there  the 
volumes  were  the  day  he  came.  I  have  not  put  them 
in  his  way. 

He  opens.     The  print  is  small.     There  has  come 


54  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

upon  him  a  disgust  of  reading.  Les  Miserables  is 
enormous.  The  five  volumes,  with  the  small  print, 
— he  may  well  be  irresolute,  on  opening.  A  crisis! 
He  puts  the  books  down.  He  turns  away.  But 
straightway  he  turns  back.  He  takes  up  volume  the  I, 
he  stands  reading.  He  reads  on.  He  resumes  his 
seat  but  he  reads  on. 

That  was  i  week  since. 

To-day,  should  I  mistake  not,  the  soul  is  born. 

I  have  been  all  day  on  a  far  call.  Evening  was 
fallen  when  I  reach  home.  I  found  Jacques  and 
never  had  I  beheld  him  so.  That  he  was  much 
wrought  upon,  who  should  deny?  Yet  calm.  He 
attend  the  commonplaces  of  the  chore.  The  horses  he 
put  in  the  stables.  He  rub  them.  He  feed  them. 
He  omit  nothing  of  the  ordinary  but  made  the  supper, 
swept  the  hearth,  set  all  in  order.  The  while,  I  could 
ask  myself  if  he  was  well  aware  of  doing  these  things. 
There  was  an  air  about  him,  of  absence. 

At  length,  each  thing  being  done,  he  laid  before  me 
volume  the  I  of  Les  Miserables. 

He  says :  "  Read !  Read  to  me,  all  about  Bishop 
Welcome!" 

Ah,  the  best  of  bishops!  The  bishop  too  good  to 
dwell  anywhere  save  in  a  book!  How  shall  I  not  be 
glad  to  read  of  him?  How  shall  I  not  put  the  heart 
in  my  reading?  If  there  is  that  in  my  voice,  in  my 
manner,  which  is  .affecting,  I  shall  not  wonder. 
Jacques  hears,  without  moving.  From  time  to  time 
I  will  look  up.  Always  I  behold  him  in  a  silent 
rapture,  in  a  serene  transport.  In  his  eyes  the  light 
of  tranquil  exulting!  As  for  his  neck,  it  has  never 
throbbed  so  slightly.  He  is  lifted  to  a  contentment, 
of  a  lofty  description. 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  55 

The  conjecture  sweeps  over  me  that  the  soul  is 
born.  Shall  I  hear  its  cry,  its  first  wail  of  conscious 
life? 

No!  There  is  not  a  word  from  him,  not  a  sound, 
though  I  am  done  reading  at  length. 

However,  he  retire  to  rest.  In  a  little  I  overhear 
him.  He  is  weeping. 

I  call  to  him :  "  Jacques,  my  boy,  can  you  not 
sleep?" 

He  answers :  "  I  do  not  wish  to  sleep !  If  I  sleep 
I  shall  forget !  " 

But  now,  as  I  write,  he  sleeps,  after  all.  Very  well 
for  him.  In  his  high  moods  he  may  be  not  far  from 
insanity. 

It  is  2  o'clock  in  the  A.  M. 

19  of  August 

This  morning  it  is  very  early  when  he  is  dressing 
himself  already.  Before  5  o'clock,  &  the  sun  not 
risen.  Misgiving  assails  me.  Since  2  days  now  there 
has  been  a  resolution  gathering  in  his  face.  Since  2 
days  have  I  foreboded. 

I  spring  up.     I  go  to  him. 

I  say :     "  My  boy,  what  is  this  ?  " 

He  say :     "  I  must  be  about  my  father's  business !  " 

It  makes  me  astonishment  when  he  repeats  the 
words  of  Jesus.  And  the  pain !  "  I  must  be  about 
my  father's  business !  "  says  he,  &  my  heart  sinks. 

This  is  my  thought :  He  has  found  that  which  he 
was  seeking. 

I  question:     "Whose  business?" 

He  is  silent.  But  I  am  bold  to  go  on  with  him. 
The  pain  of  foreboding,  for  that  I  will  know. 

Myself :  "  Your  father's  business,  what  shall  it 
be?" 


56  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

Jacques:     "To  feed  his  sheep!" 

Myself:     "The  sheep,  they  are  where?" 

Jacques :  "  Where  many  sheep  are,  who  look  up 
and  are  not  fed !  " 

As  I  have  foreboded!     He  will  leave  me! 

I  am  selfish.  The  pang  wrings  this  from  me :  "  Is 
not  old  Robert  sheep  enough  to  feed  ?  " 

However  he  is  silent.  He  looks  beyond  me.  He 
moves  off,  hurriedly.  He  is  going  at  once?  Even 
so!  Yet  it  is  not  more  abruptly  than  he  came. 

I  stifle  my  selfishness. 

I  remark  :     "  You  will  need  money." 

He  demands:     "Did   St.   Francis  need  money?" 

It  makes  me  astonishment  that  he  know  of  St. 
Francis.  But  I  expostulate :  "  These  United  States 
are  not  Italy.  Nor  is  the  19  century  the  12 !  " 

He  retorts :     "  The  sheep  look  up  and  are  not  fed !  " 

Only  my  entreaty  prevail  over  him.  He  take  the 
money.  It  is  but  a  small  sum.  He  set  out.  I  call 
to  him  good-bye.  He  does  not  hear  me.  This  is 
heart-wringing. 

He  will  return.     Or  is  it  only  that  I  hope? 

25  of  August. 

So  strangely  he  came,  so  strangely  he  went  away, 
I  can  wonder  if  he  was  not  the  part  of  a  dream !  But 
no,  yonder  are  the  vines.  And  yonder  is  the  field  of 
corn  almost  white  for  the  sickle. 

How  could  he  leave  all, — great  Pan,  the  household, 
the  horses,  old  Robert  ? 

He  go  better  than  he  came, — he  have  the  use  of  his 
mind  much  more. 

Not  that  reason  has  been  enthroned  supreme.  Not 
at  all.  With  him  such  can  never  be.  His  purpose  is 


Dr.   Robert's   Diary  57 

given  to  him  by  his  feelings,  which  are  ever  in  the 
command  of  him.  But  now  they  have  for  their  ser- 
vant, as  not  before,  the  useful  mind.  It  is  as  if  he 
should  be  a  ship,  bound  for  yonder  port.  The  feelings 
are  his  engines,  but  they  cannot  very  well  sail  him. 
He  flounders.  He  drifts.  He  is  at  times  near  the 
rocks.  Mind  is  the  skilful  navigator,  until  now  asleep. 
He  wakes.  He  takes  the  wheel.  It  is  the  same  port, 
same  ship,  same  engines.  Only  the  pilot  have  come 
on  board. 

7  of  September. 

I  am  moved  to  read  afresh  about  the  good  bishop, 
but  behold,  of  Les  Miserables,  the  volume  I  is  not  to 
be  found. 

Jacques  has  taken  it  with  him.  Otherwise  it  would 
not  be  gone. 


BOOK  III 

VOICE     CRYING    IN    THE 
WILDERNESS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  WILDERNESS 

IT  would  not  be  like  an  Indian  to  take  thought  of  the 
morrow,  or  provide  aught  against  the  time  of  scarcity. 
Why  should  he  trouble  himself?  If  game  fails,  he 
knows  berries  and  barks  which  will  feed  him.  If 
berries  and  barks  fail,  he  knows  how  to  draw  up  his 
belt  and  stifle  his  hunger  for  a  long  time.  And  when 
all  else  fails,  he  knows  how  to  die  without  taking 
death  hard.  No,  he  will  not  provide,  nor  yet  will  he 
hesitate,  in  prudent  fear  of  want,  to  go  whithersoever 
the  fancy  leads  him.  But  wrhat  if  fancy,  or  some 
sublimer  thing,  shall  lead  him  into  a  great  city? 
There  he  is  clean  cut  off  from  his  good  mother,  the 
earth.  She  is  so  overlaid  with  brick  and  asphalt  that 
he  may  not  even  touch  her,  unless  it  should  be  where 
some  sorry  little  park  uncovers  her  in  a  niggardly, 
mocking  fashion.  Anyway,  she  is  no  more  his  mother, 
taking  care  of  all  his  needs,  stretching  out  her  bounti- 
ful hand  to  him.  There  is  plenty  to  eat,  all  about 
him, — mountains  of  food, — more  than  he  ever  saw 
before;  but  it  is  to  be  had  only  by  grace  of  strange 
powers,  whose  graces  he  has  never  cultivated. 

Shack  had  never  learned  to  beg.  The  occasion  for 
begging  was  always  lacking.  In  his  life  hitherto,  if 
there  was  food  at  all,  it  was  forthcoming  for  every- 
body without  the  asking;  and  if  there  was  none,  no- 

61 


62     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

body's  asking  would  make  it  forthcome.  If  food  did 
not  offer,  he  knew  no  alternative  but  going  without, 
and  to  that  alternative  he  was  not  a  stranger.  To 
go  hungry  was  not  such  a  new  experience  that  it 
would  soon  turn  him  to  new  expedients. 

Had  he  kept  his  bit  of  money,  he  might  presently 
have  mastered,  though  in  a  rudimentary  way,  the  art 
of  spending,  of  making  those  scraps  of  metal  serve 
him.  Dr.  Robert  had  given  him  theoretical  instruc- 
tion, and  not  without  effect,  though  Shack's  ears  were 
undoubtedly  rendered  pretty  deaf  by  his  exaltation; 
and  practical  lessons  would  not  be  withheld.  But 
the  money  he  did  not  keep.  He  was  robbed  the  first 
night  he  lay  in  the  city,  and  stripped  of  his  last  penny. 

For  him  it  was  no  great  walk, — a  day  and  a  night 
(his  wish  to  get  on  wouldn't  let  him  sleep)  and  part 
of  another  day.  Walking,  for  him,  was  as  easy  as 
breathing,  and  he  wasn't  tired.  Nor  was  he  hungry, 
as  yet,  though  it  was  hours  since  food  had  passed  his 
lips.  He  started  out  with  a  goodly  stock  of  bread 
and  meat  tied  up  in  a  paper,  but  by  the  time  he  had 
met  half  a  dozen  tramps  who  did  not  scruple  to  help 
themselves,  he  hadn't  a  morsel  left.  That  didn't  mat- 
ter, though, — his  wish  to  get  forward  wouldn't  let 
him  think  much  about  eating,  anyway.  There  was 
plenty  to  remind  him,  too,  especially  in  the  hour  of  his 
arrival,  which  wasn't  far  from  noon,  and  the  houses 
in  the  outskirts  were  sending  forth  strong  smells  of 
cookery.  It  would  be  like  him  to  step  into  a  house, 
any  house,  and  sit  down  to  the  table  without  bidding, 
but  he  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  The  houses  weren't 
camps  and  the  people  weren't  lumberjacks, — every- 
thing, in  short,  was  very,  very  strange ;  and  Shack  let 
his  hunger  wait  while  he  pushed  on. 


The  Wilderness  63 

It  was  just  here  that  he  began  to  be  keenly  on  the 
watch  for  those  sheep,  looking  up.  Watching  for 
these,  he  could  forget  the  inner  man,  pretty  much. 

He  met  many  people,  thousands  upon  thousands  by 
nightfall,  but  though  he  scanned  them  eagerly,  there 
was  none  who  had  more  than  a  passing  glance  for 
him, — so  lightly  did  they  regard  him  that  he  could 
wonder  if  they  really  saw  him  at  all.  Men  and  women 
and  children,  an  endless  hurrying  throng, — were  these 
the  sheep  who  were  not  fed?  If  so,  they  were  very 
cool  and  indifferent  about  it. 

As  evening  drew  on,  the  great  buildings  downtown 
poured  out  their  workers,  and  the  workers  went 
streaming  off  in  every  direction,  and  the  streets  were 
like  very  rivers  of  humanity.  It  was  then  a  blind 
man  with  a  hand-organ  posted  himself  at  a  busy  corner 
and  ground  out  tunes;  and  he  held  his  face  so  turned 
that  you  could  fancy,  if  you  were  a  trustful,  eager 
boy  just  out  of  the  woods, — that  you  could  fancy  he 
was  looking  up  with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit.  Anyway, 
there  was  a  hungry  expectancy  about  him.  But  he 
bad  a  tin  cup  into  which  someone  would  now  and  then 
drop  a  coin,  and  as  often  as  that  happened  you  saw 
the  hungry  expectancy  give  way,  for  a  moment,  to 
unmistakable  joy. 

Shack  dropped  in  a  coin,  the  very  largest  he  had, 
a  silver  dollar.  It  was  almost  too  big  to  go  into  the 
cup,  and  it  fell  with  a  sort  of  a  crash  which  made 
the  blind  man  start  and  stop  grinding.  And  who  ever 
beheld  such  joy  as  his  when  his  fingers  clutched  the 
great  broad  piece  of  money  ? 

That  was  one  sheep  fed,  at  all  events. 

Shack  wasn't  thinking  for  a  moment  of  a  place  to 
sleep.  He  was  for  going  right  on  with  his  search, 


64     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

regardless  of  the  season.  So  long  as  there  remained 
people  abroad,  it  was  for  him  to  be  awake;  and  when 
there  should  be  no  more  people,  he  had  only  to  throw 
himself  down  anywhere, — no  Indian,  least  of  all  an 
Indian  with  such  a  mission,  would  take  forethought 
of  a  place  to  sleep.  Nevertheless,  it  somehow  made 
him  rather  glad  and  grateful  when  a  young  woman 
accosted  and  asked  him  where  he  was  staying  that 
night  and,  when  he  showed  by  his  answer  that  he 
didn't  know,  kindly  invited  him  to  go  with  her.  Her 
kindness  served  to  show  him,  all  at  once,  how  lone- 
some he  really  was,  how  hurt  he  was  in  his  heart  by 
meeting  so  many  strange  persons  and  none  of  them 
giving  him  a  nod. 

She  was  very  gracious,  very.  There  was  nothing 
about  her  to  suggest  that  she  was  one  of  the  sheep, 
however, — no  looking  up  or  anything  of  that  char- 
acter. She  made  much  prattling  talk  as  they  walked 
along  together,  whither  she  led,  through  dark  and 
wretched  streets;  but  little  to  the  point.  He  told  her 
about  his  father's  business,  and  at  length  felt  so  well 
acquainted  that  he  offered  to  read  to  her  from  his 
books;  and  she  listened  courteously  if  not  thirstily, — 
at  any  rate  she  was  willing  to  hear.  Once  they 
glanced  ahead  and  by  the  light  of  a  shop  window 
saw  a  big  man  in  blue  and  brass,  and  the  girl  seized 
him  by  the  arm  and  pulled  him  over  to  the  other 
side  where  it  was  darker,  and  that  seemed  altogether 
queer.  Still,  everything  was  queer,  for  that  matter, 
and  there  was  no  denying  the  kindliness, — who  else 
in  the  city  had  been  so  kindly? 

They  turned  in  finally  at  a  species  of  beehive,  only 
bees  would  never  be  up  and  about  so  late.  But  like 
bees  men,  and  women,  were  going  in  and  coming 


The  Wilderness  65 

out,  incessantly,  by  a  door  which  bore  considerable 
resemblance  to  that  of  a  hive.  Beyond  it  you  entered 
a  long,  low  room,  which  would  put  you  in  mind  of  a 
lumber  camp,  though  it  wasn't  so  clean,  and  there  were 
no  bunks.  At  one  corner  there  were  shelves,  filled 
with  bottles  and  glasses,  and  a  tall  bench  in  front  of 
them.  The  floor  was  covered  with  sawdust  much 
mingled  with  dirt,  and  there  were  tables,  and  some 
chairs.  A  man  was  hammering  a  clangorous  piano, 
evoking  lively  airs, — much  livelier  and  prettier  than 
any  Shack  had  ever  heard.  He  was  greatly  pleased 
with  the  music,  and  nothing  displeased  him  except  a 
certain  odor  which  hung  heavy  in  the  air  and  turned 
him  faint.  It  brought  up  a  disagreeable  memory,  of 
the  time  the  playful  jacks  made  him  tipsy,  and  he  was 
so  miserably  sick  and  dizzy.  He  wished  to  run  away 
from  the  odor,  it  was  so  unpleasant,  but  the  young 
woman  wouldn't  let  him. 

She  was  mightily  gracious  about  it,  though.  She 
threw  her  arms  tenderly  round  his  neck,  when  he 
started  for  the  door,  and  with  the  gentlest  violence 
pulled  him  down  into  a  chair,  and  besought  him,  in 
such  melting  accents,  to  remain,  that  it  was  difficult 
not  to  yield.  At  the  same  time  a  man  in  an  apron 
came  out  from  among  the  glassware  with  two  big 
foaming  mugs,  which  he  set  down  on  the  table  before 
them. 

There  was  a  mug  for  each  of  them. 

"  Here's  looking  at  you !  "  cried  the  young  woman, 
and  drank  from  her  mug, — a  singular  sentiment,  yet 
clearly  kind,  for  she  clapped  him  on  the  back. 

Shack  sniffed  at  the  stuff;  but  it  had  none  of  the 
sickening  odor,  and  he  drank  it.  Nothing  could  be 
more  certain  than  that  the  young  woman  would  have 


66     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

him  drink  it.  In  fact,  she  frankly  told  him  so,  and 
besought  him  to  be  a  good  fellow, — it  wasn't  costing 
him  anything.  It  was  but  a  small  thing  she  asked  of 
him,  anyway,  even  though  the  stuff  was  bitter,  and 
there  was  so  much  of  it  he  thought  he  should  never 
get  to  the  bottom  of  the  mug.  He  drank  it,  every 
drop. 

"  Now,"  quoth  his  gentle  hostess,  taking  him  pleas- 
antly by  the  hand,  "  let's  go  upstairs." 

There  were  a  great  many  stairs,  as  it  turned  out, 
and  prodigiously  hard  to  climb.  Shack  stumbled 
abominably.  His  feet  were  heavy  as  lead,  all  of  a 
sudden.  This  could  be  accounted  for,  however,  by  his 
having  sat  down.  Anyone  who  has  footed  it  much 
knows  how  that  is.  You  can  walk  for  hours  and 
hours,  provided  you  keep  walking,  whereas  if  you  sit 
down  by  the  way,  you  find,  when  you  go  on,  that  your 
feet  have  become  very  heavy  and  hard  to  drag  along. 
Shack  had  tarried  by  the  table  some  little  time,  lis- 
tening to  the  music  and  drinking,  and  it  was  no  won- 
der if  the  stairs  gave  him  trouble. 

They  came  to  the  top  at  last  and  then  the  young 
woman  (she  had  held  his  hand  all  the  way,  in  the 
pleasantest,  most  helpful  fashion  in  the  world)  led 
him  off  through  the  darkness  to  a  room.  It  seemed  a 
room,  at  least,  because  he  was  distinctly  aware  of  her 
opening  a  door,  and  pulling  him  through,  and  shutting 
the  door  behind  them.  Undoubtedly  it  was  a  room. 
The  young  woman  struck  a  match,  or,  rather,  a  dozen 
matches  all  at  once,  and  lighted  a  dozen  lamps  or  such 
a  matter,  some  of  them  upside  down  and  none  of  them 
standing  still;  and  thereupon  nothing  could  be  plainer 
than  that  they  were  in  the  room.  The  walls  were 
clearly  visible,  undulating  on  every  side.  It  was  a 


The  Wilderness  67 

little  room,  and  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  sit  down  on 
but  a  number  of  beds,  and  Shack  sat  down  on  these 
and  felt  very  much  fagged.  That  was  about  all.  He 
had  no  intention  of  going  to  sleep,  but  the  next  he 
knew  he  was  waking  up,  with  a  struggle,  and  there 
was  only  one  lamp,  dingy  and  unlighted,  and  the  day 
was  pushing  in  through  a  very  small  and  very  unclean 
window.  He  was  lying  across  the  bed — there  was 
only  one  bed,  now — in  all  his  clothes;  and  he  was 
alone. 

As  he  struggled  more  and  more  awake  these  cir- 
cumstances began  to  strike  him  as  the  most  extraor- 
dinary yet.  How  came  he  to  be  there?  He  recalled 
the  young  woman.  What  had  become  of  her  ?  Well, 
likely  she  had  retired  to  some  other  room, — Shack 
was  not  too  ignorant  of  the  proprieties  to  understand 
why  that  should  be.  But  whether  or  no,  it  was  time 
to  be  getting  up.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  struggling  still, 
— there  was  a  weight  on  his  chest,  and  the  moment  he 
lifted  his  head  it  swam  off  his  shoulders.  That  rather 
alarmed  him,  and  he  thought  only  of  getting  out, — 
the  young  woman  and  all  else  forgotten.  He  fell 
twice  before  he  reached  the  door,  though  it  didn't 
seem  exactly  like  falling  either, — more  as  if  the  floor 
reared  on  edge  and  bumped  itself  against  him;  and 
the  stairs,  though  less  numerous  than  they  had  been 
last  night,  were  bothersome  enough,  with  his  feet  like 
clods  and  his  head  floating  off  all  the  time. 

Faithful  instinct  was  guiding  him  to  the  open  air 
and  its  restoring  touch,  and  he  had  tottered  uncer- 
tainly halfway  across  the  bar,  when  the  man  in  the 
apron  laid  hold  of  him  roughly. 

"Here,  pay  for  your  lodging!"  he  growled,  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "  Room — cost  you  a  dollar." 


68     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

The  demand  did  not  appear  unreasonable, — Shack 
was  enough  instructed  in  matters  fiscal  for  that.  If 
the  young  woman's  cordial  manner  had  given  him 
some  expectation  of  being  entertained  without  money 
and  without  price,  it  prompted  no  expostulation  now. 
He  was  mightily  confused,  but  there  was  still  the  sense 
or  impulse  to  send  his  hand  to  the  pocket  where  his 
money  had  lain. 

The  pocket  was  empty.     The  money  was  gone. 

The  man  looked  on  sourly,  and  understood.  There 
was  no  getting  juice  out  of  a  squeezed  orange, — there 
was  only  the  consolation  of  flying  into  a  passion. 

"  Get  out,  you  Rube ! "  he  snarled,  with  a  gush  of 
profanity,  and  gave  Shack  a  push  and  a  kick  which 
sent  him  through  the  door  in  a  hurry. 

He  wasn't  ruffled  by  the  indignity,  not  in  the  least. 
A  youth  who  had  not  been  pushed  and  kicked  from 
pillar  to  post  all  his  life  long  might  feel  a  hot  resent- 
ment and  meditate  vengeance,  but  not  Shack.  Be- 
sides, he  had  something  more  urgent  to  think  about, 
namely  his  head,  which,  when  it  wasn't  floating  off, 
was  bursting;  and  his  feet,  which  were  almost  more 
trouble  than  he  could  manage.  He  was  out  of  doors, 
and  that  was  a  great  relief, — what  should  make  him 
wish  to  go  back  in?  He  felt  the  touch  of  the  air  and 
blessed  it  in  the  unconscious,  savage  way.  But  if  air 
was  much  water  would  be  more.  Where  was  there 
some  water?  Without  a  thought  of  the  man  or  his 
affront,  Shack  went  searching  for  water. 

He  hadn't  far  to  go.  Just  round  the  corner  he 
came  upon  a  huge  iron  horse-trough,  brimming  over. 
He  ran  up  and  plunged  his  head  into  it  again  and 
again, — his  head  and  much  of  his  shoulders,  for  the 
water  was  deep,  and  deliciously  cold.  It  made  him 


The  Wilderness  69 

tingle  wherever  it  touched  him,  and  he  would  very 
likely  have  got  in  all  over  only  that  the  driver  of  a 
truck  rebuked  him,  asking  him  if  he  supposed  horses 
liked  bugs  in  their  drink.  The  truckman  had  driven 
his  team  up,  and  the  beasts  were  smelling  suspiciously 
at  the  trough,  though  they  were  hot  and  thirsty, — no 
doubt  the  rebuke  was  justified.  Shack  scrambled  out 
of  his  bath,  and  sat  down  on  the  curb  near  by,  wet 
from  head  to  foot,  a  spectacle  such  that  people  looked 
and  wondered,  but  what  of  that?  He  was  a  great 
deal  better, — so  much  better  that  he  could  collect  his 
thoughts;  and  with  these  he  was  too  busy  to  mind 
being  stared  at. 


CHAPTER  II 
JEAN  VALJEAN  IN  PETTICOATS 

SIN,  in  its  very  common  aspects,  was  not  a  thing 
unheard  of,  though  it  should  be  unknown,  in  the  Ar- 
cadian aisles  of  the  pineries,  or  the  rustic  solitudes  of 
the  reservation.  Traders  and  lumberjacks  were  not 
apt  to  be  guarded  in  their  conversation,  and  Shack 
had  heard  tell  of  much.  He  knew  what  robbery  was, 
and  he  knew  that  he  had  been  robbed,  that  the  young 
woman  was  a  thief.  Perhaps,  in  a  vague  way,  as  a 
child  might  know  such  a  thing,  he  knew  what  else  she 
was;  but  that  part  didn't  concern  him.  He  thought 
of  her  as  thief,  and  nothing  more. 

And  Jean  Valjean  was  a  thief,  too. 

It  was  with  no  sense  of  personal  injury  that  Shack 
thought  of  the  young  woman.  The  money  was  noth- 
ing much  to  him,  anyway, — he  scarcely  knew  how  to 
use  it, — for  aught  he  knew  to  the  contrary  he  was 
about  as  well  off  without  it ;  why  should  he  feel  partic- 
ularly injured?  And  who  was  he  to  bear  in  mind  the 
injury  to  society,  the  larger  significance  of  theft?  No- 
body, of  course, — society,  in  any  formal  aspect,  was  a 
thing  apart.  But  somehow  there  was  no  escaping  the 
feeling  that  the  young  woman  had  done  herself  a 
wrong, — it  was  in  that  view  he  considered  her  thievery, 
sitting  so  oddly  there,  in  his  wet  garments.  It  was 
the  feeling  more  than  the  thought, — such  a  thought 

70 


Jean  Valjean  in  Petticoats  71 

would  be  rather  too  theological  for  Shack;  he  was 
sorry  for  her.  That  was  the  amount  of  it, — he  was 
supremely  sorry  for  the  young  woman,  so  much  so 
that  his  eyes  swam  with  tears. 

Then  came  the  vision, — tears  might  not  shut  that 
out.  In  a  sweetly  solemn  vision  he  read  the  meaning 
of  it  all,  foresaw  that  his  mission  was  to  bear  fruit 
in  the  first  day  of  it.  What  else?  Why,  if  not  for 
that,  had  they  two  come  together, — he  the  chosen  to 
save,  and  she  who  so  needed  saving, — he  the  shepherd, 
and  she  the  sheep  looking  up  to  be  fed? 

The  old  restlessness  came  over  him.  He  walked 
about,  and  the  vision  tarried  before  his  eyes.  After 
awhile  he  found  himself  down  by  the  river,  among 
the  docks.  There  was  a  crowd  of  busy  men  and 
horses  everywhere;  he  had  walked  off  his  unrest,  but 
there  was  no  place  here  for  an  idle  fellow  to  sit  and 
brood,  until  he  came  to  the  very  end  of  the  river- 
front, where  an  old  half-rotten  wharf  was  piled  with 
building-stone,  and  rough  lumber  such  as  nobody 
would  take  the  trouble  to  steal,  and  barrels  of  lime 
and  salt;  and  not  a  soul  about  nearer  than  the  rusty 
schooner  moored  off  the  far  end.  In  there  he  found 
a  sunny  place  in  a  valley  of  rocks  and  barrels,  and 
sat  down.  It  had  been  a  sharp  morning,  and  the 
warmth  struck  through  his  damp  clothes  very  agree- 
ably. His  vision  kept  him  from  taking  much  account 
of  bodily  conditions,  but  the  warmth  seemed  properly 
a  part  of  it,  an  element  in  the  joy  of  the  spirit,  as  if 
the  sun  shone  through  into  his  very  soul.  He  blessed 
the  warmth  as  he  had  blessed  the  fresh  air. 

They  were  preparing  breakfast,  on  board  the 
schooner,  and  the  odor  of  meat  was  wafted  in  over 
the  dock.  Could  the  vision  keep  him  from  taking  ac- 


72     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

count  of  his  hunger?  Not  easily,  that  was  sure.  A 
tousled  man  lounged  on  deck,  staring  stupidly,  till  a 
tousled  woman  put  her  head  out  of  the  cabin  and  called 
to  him,  and  he  went  below,  leaving  Shack  all  to  him- 
self. The  odor  lingered, — there  came  on  a  sort  of 
conflict  between  it  and  the  vision, — the  spiritual  strug- 
gling with  the  fleshly.  Pretty  soon  the  tousled  man 
came  rolling  up  on  deck  again,  looking  very  replete 
and  comfortable,  and  lit  his  pipe,  and  smoked  away 
peacefully. 

It  was  a  battle,  but  the  vision  won.  The  odor  grew 
thin  and  vanished,  the  vision  was  brighter  and 
brighter. 

Shack  brooded,  ecstatically. 

Jean  Valjean,  he,  too,  was  a  thief.  He  was  given 
up  to  sin  completely, — he  was  in  the  worst  way.  His 
specific  offense,  the  theft  of  the  spoons  and  the  small 
silver  coin,  that  was  in  itself  trifling;  the  desperate 
blackness  of  his  heart  was  what  made  him  such  a  dis- 
tinguished sinner.  A  distinguished  sinner  he  knocked 
at  Bishop  Welcome's  door  that  night,  to  go  away  at 
length, — not  at  once  but  at  length, — a  man  of  good 
will,  reclaimed  from  sin,  with  the  leaven  of  righteous- 
ness in  him. 

How  came  it  about?    Very  simply. 

Jean  was  hungry,  and  the  bishop  gave  him  to  eat. 
He  was  thirsty,  and  the  bishop  gave  him  to  drink. 
He  was  a  stranger,  a  vile  outcast  whom  all  others  had 
spat  on,  and  the  bishop  took  him  in,  giving  him  his 
best  bed  and  treating  him  in  all  things  as  an  honored 
guest. 

But  that  wasn't  enough.  Darkness  lay  thick  and 
heavy  on  the  soul  of  Jean  Valjean, — it  was  not  easily 


Jean  Valjean  in  Petticoats  73 

penetrated  by  this  light  of  love.  He  rose  in  the  dead 
of  night  and  stole  the  bishop's  silver,  the  few  things 
of  worth  which  he  had  left,  for  he  had  bestowed  all 
the  rest  in  alms.  These  Jean  stole,  and  made  off. 

He  was  arrested.  He  was  suspect,  anyway,  through 
having  served  in  the  galleys ;  and  his  having  silver  in 
his  possession  was  enough  in  itself  to  damn  him,  and 
the  crest  on  it  told  the  police  whose  it  was.  Jean 
was  arrested  and  dragged  back  in  irons,  to  confront 
the  good  man  whose  goodness  he  had  so  outrageously 
repaid. 

"  Here  are  your  eminence's  spoons,"  said  the  police, 
addressing  the  bishop  in  terms  of  the  respect  due  his 
exalted  office. 

And  the  bishop  made  answer :  "  They  are  not  mine. 
They  were  mine,  formerly,  but  I  gave  them  to  this 
man,  who  lodged  with  me  last  night." 

That  was  what  did  it.  With  that  act  of  grace  love 
shot  its  light  into  the  very  midst  of  Jean's  soul,  and 
rived  the  darkness,  and  scattered  it.  From  that  day 
he  was  saved. 


Shack's  heart  beat  high.  He  exulted.  He  was 
carried  away.  Hungry?  Never!  It  was  pork-saus- 
age they  were  having  for  breakfast,  on  the  schooner, 
— seasoned  strongly  with  sage.  Does  anything  in  the 
world  smell  better,  cooking,  than  pork-sausage 
seasoned  with  sage  ?  No,  nothing !  But  if  the  tousled 
man  had  asked  Shack  down  to  partake,  he  would  have 
declined,  saying  he  wasn't  hungry. 

It  was  something  to  make  him  exult  indeed,  this 
thing  of  his  being  so  favored  at  the  very  start,  just 
when  he  was  most  in  danger  of  losing  courage.  Here 


74     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

was  his  opportunity  made  ready  for  him, — almost  the 
first  person  he  had  met  in  the  city  turning  out  to  be 
a  thief,  who  robbed  him  even  as  Jean  Valjean  had 
robbed  the  bishop.  Very  clearly  it  was  for  him  to  hunt 
the  young  woman  up,  and  forgive  her,  in  the  manner 
of  the  bishop.  Very  clearly!  For  when  he  should 
have  done  that,  the  graciousness  of  his  act  must  send 
the  blessed  light  of  love  into  her  dark  soul,  to  become 
the  salvation  of  her. 

He  hunted. 

You  need  scarcely  be  told  how  it  went.  The  busi- 
ness was  rather  worse  than  the  proverbial  business  of 
seeking  a  needle  in  a  haystack,  because  a  needle  isn't 
trying  to  keep  out  of  the  way.  But  his  courage  was 
high, — the  vision  stayed  by  him.  A  Scotchman  knows 
how  to  be  steadfast,  and  a  Frenchman,  too,  and  an 
Indian, — he  had  the  sober  determination  of  three  de- 
termined races,  and  the  ecstatic  vision  besides.  It 
was  a  brave  hunt. 

First  of  all  he  went  back  to  the  beehive,  and  entered 
unhesitatingly  in  at  the  door  which  he  had  been  pushed 
and  kicked  out  of  so  lately.  The  man  was  there,  be- 
hind the  bar  with  his  bottles.  He  recognized  Shack 
disdainfully. 

"  Hello,  Rube ! "  he  bawled  out,  and  some  bloated 
loafers  who  were  lolling  about  looked  up  and  laughed. 

But  once  more  Shack  wasn't  ruffled,  having  better 
things  to  think  about.  "  I'm  looking  for  a  young 
woman,"  he  said,  and  briefly  described  his  precious 
thief.  He  had  a  good  picture  of  her  in  his  memory. 
How  could  he  forget  her,  knowing  her  to  have  been 
sent  on  purpose  to  be  saved  by  him? 

The  man  knew  whom  he  meant.  "  She  ain't  here," 
he  growled,  but  right  away  his  temper  flew  and  he 


Jean  Valjean  in  Petticoats  75 

stormed  out :  "  You  (profanity)  fool,  do  you  suppose 
we  keep  the  like  of  her  round  here?  " 

Shack  didn't  mind  the  profanity,  though  it  was 
pointed.  Plenty  of  lumberjacks  had  called  him  worse 
kinds  of  a  fool.  But  he  persisted.  "  She  was  here  last 
night,"  he  said. 

The  man  snorted  contemptuously  and  turned  his 
back. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  her  ?  "  Shack  asked. 

"  If  I  can  I  won't.    What  you  take  me  for?  " 

Shack  was  not  too  dense  to  perceive  that  he  was  mis- 
understood, that  he  was  thought  to  meditate  the  young 
woman  harm.  Of  course  that  was  a  monstrous  mis- 
take, and  he  hastened  to  say  so,  but  all  the  response 
he  got  was  an  "  Oho !  "  brought  out  in  such  a  way 
that  the  loafers  laughed  in  glee. 

Very  evidently  his  thief  or  any  trace  of  her  was 
not  to  be  found  there,  and  he  could  think  of  nothing 
else,  but  to  watch  for  her  near  the  place  where  he  had 
met  her  first.  It  was  a  thronged  corner,  at  the  edge  of 
a  public  market,  and  pedlers  and  hucksters  of  many 
kinds,  together  with  their  countless  customers,  were 
there,  jostling  from  morning  till  night  but  especially 
at  night.  Shack  walked  up  and  down,  as  he  had 
walked  before,  and  scanned  the  face  of  every  woman 
he  saw.  There  were  women  without  number.  Some 
of  them  were  housewives  of  the  poorer  class,  going 
with  their  baskets  to  buy,  or  coming  away.  Some 
were  operatives  in  the  nearby  factories.  Some  were 
of  the  sort  of  her  whom  he  was  seeking.  His  under- 
standing of  what  that  sort  was  grew  clearer,  he  had  a 
notion  of  what  it  was  that  kept  them  roaming  about 
the  streets,  he  could  identify  them  with  the  women  of 
whom  he  had  heard  ribald  lumberjacks  and  traders 


76     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

speak.  Sometimes  these  women  would  accost  him, 
and  ask  him  to  go  home  with  them;  and  when,  in 
the  face  of  his  refusal,  they  persisted,  he  understood 
them  well  enough  to  be  rid  of  them  by  saying  he  had 
no  money. 

He  lodged  that  night  in  an  empty  shed  down  by  the 
docks.  Many  a  time  he  had  lodged  in  a  worse  place. 
If  his  sleep  was  fitful  and  at  length  broken  entirely, 
that  wasn't  because  of  the  cheerless  shed.  It  was  be- 
cause of  his  hunger.  Before  morning  he  was  terribly 
hungry.  He  had  eaten  nothing  all  day,  and  even  the 
vision,  though  he  tried  his  best  to  occupy  himself 
ings  of  the  wolf  at  his  vitals.  The  hours  before  dawn 
were  long  and  dreary, — in  the  cold  darkness  it  was 
hard  to  see  the  vision,  and  it  all  but  slipped  from  him. 
Of  course  he  remembered  the  barks  and  berries  which 
he  knew  about,  and  just  as  soon  as  it  was  light  enough, 
he  went  looking  for  them.  There  were  two  or  three 
pitiful  parks  not  far  off,  and  he  prowled  through 
them  in  the  gray  dusk,  searching  minutely.  But  the 
trees  and  shrubs  had  nothing  for  him.  He  recognized 
but  a  single  plant,  a  sickly  oak,  almost  dead.  For 
this  he  conceived  a  fellow  feeling.  He,  too,  with 
being  out  of  his  proper  place,  was  sick  almost  unto 
death. 

Still  he  kept  up  the  hunt  for  his  thief.  That  is  to 
say,  he  kept  on  walking  up  and  down,  in  the  haunts 
of  such  persons,  meeting  women  of  her  kind  every 
little  while,  and  never  failing  to  look  them  in  the 
face.  With  every  spear  of  hay  gone  over,  he  was  a 
step  nearer  the  needle, — some  such  thought  as  that 
was  behind  his  plodding  persistence.  Though  the 
hunger  was  fierce,  and  a  definite  purpose  was  hard  to 


Jean  Valjean  in  Petticoats  77 

hold  to,  he  hunted  and  hunted,  for  that  purpose  rooted 
deep,  like  an  instinct. 

As  the  day  wore  on  there  came  over  him  a  sense 
of  his  helplessness,  of  the  futility  of  his  unaided  ef- 
forts. He  thought  of  the  police.  Why  not  call  on 
them  ?  After  all  the  police  had  their  part  in  the  recla- 
mation of  Jean  Valjean.  If  Jean  had  not  been  arrested 
and  dragged  back,  the  sublime  tragedy  were  incom- 
plete,— the  bishop's  love  would  have  failed  of  its  tell- 
ing demonstration  and  the  sinner  would  have  gone 
on  in  his  sin.  To  be  sure  Shack  didn't  want  his  thief 
arrested, — it  wasn't  necessary  to  the  tragedy  now. 
But  that  could  be  explained  to  the  police, — they  could 
be  made  to  see  that  all  he  needed  was  to  find  the 
young  woman.  Why  shouldn't  they  help  him?  He 
was  meeting  policemen  often,  and  at  last  he  never  met 
one  without  asking  himself  that  question,  with  the 
sense  of  futility  strengthening. 

But  there  rose  another  difficulty, — even  though  his 
mind  was  made  up  to  call  on  the  police,  he  was  a  long 
time  coming  on  just  the  right  officer,  one  who  did  not 
by  something,  either  look  or  word,  repel  him  as  he 
approached.  Policemen  were  so  apt  to  betray  a  certain 
coldness,  or  aloofness,  in  the  manner  of  looking  on  the 
vice  and  squalor  all  about  them  as  so  much  dead  filth, 
to  be  scorned  and  done  away  with,  but  not  worth 
wasting  any  sympathy  on;  Shack  did  not  so  finely 
discuss  the  matter  with  himself,  but  he  felt  the  effect 
and  was  repelled.  There  was  the  right  policeman  at 
length,  however, — an  elderly  person  with  a  thick  gray 
beard  and  a  kindly  eye,  who  conversed  pleasantly  with 
a  wretched  woman  picking  rags  and  with  others  as 
little  deserving  of  consideration, — who  had,  in  short, 
a  mighty  friendly  and  promising  way  with  him. 


78      A   Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

He  shook  his  head,  though,  with  a  disconcerting 
twinkle  in  his  kindly  eye,  when  Shack  came  up  to  say 
that  he  was  hunting  for  a  young  woman  whom  he  had 
met  but  once  and  who  had  taken  him  home  with  her 
and  robbed  him  of  a  sum  of  money.  It  was  not  his 
intention  to  speak  of  the  money;  but  when  he  had  told 
the  rest,  the  policeman  asked  him,  plumply,  if  she  had 
stolen  anything  from  him,  and  he  had  to  answer.  And 
very  likely  that  part  should  be  told,  too, — the  police 
could  not  be  expected  to  move  unless  they  had  reason 
to  believe  a  crime  had  been  committed.  The  police  in 
the  greater  tragedy  never  would  have  laid  finger  on 
Jean,  to  complete  it,  only  that  they  were  informed 
of  the  theft  he  was  guilty  of. 

The  officer's  good  will  was  not  to  be  doubted,  but 
he  had  only  the  coldest  of  cold  comfort  to  give. 
"  You'll  never  find  her,  my  friend,"  he  said.  "  She'll 
not  show  herself  soon.  Besides,  if  you  should  get  her, 
you  wouldn't  get  your  money.  That's  all  spent  before 
now." 

"  I  don't  want  the  money,"  said  Shack.  He  caught 
the  quizzical  look  in  the  friendly  face,  saw  that  he 
was  being  misunderstood  once  more,  and  added,  with 
emotion :  "  I  want  to  forgive  her,  that's  all !  " 

The  officer  smiled,  as  the  man  in  the  bar  had  done, 
though  with  less  of  a  sneer.  It  was  like  him  to  be  con- 
siderate, but  a  freak  was  a  freak,  and  a  joke  was  a 
joke. 

"  Strikes  me  you  might  forgive  her  without  finding 
her,  if  that's  all  you're  after,"  he  said,  giving  Shack 
a  playful  nudge  with  his  stick.  "  Anyway,  you'll  not 
see  her  again.  She'll  take  good  care  about  that.  She 
won't  be  expecting  to  be  forgiven, — it's  not  the  usual 
thing  in  such  cases." 


Jean   Valjean  in   Petticoats  79 

"  Can't  you  help  me  look  for  her?  " 

"  Not  if  you're  going  to  forgive  her.  That's  not  in 
our  line.  We'd  be  throwing  our  time  away.  We're 
not  paid  to  forgive  people." 


CHAPTER  III 

MANNA 

THREE  days  without  food  were  almost  enough  to 
finish  even  an  Indian,  where  he  has  none  of  his  tonic 
barks,  and  no  efficient  belt  to  draw  up,  only  the  poor 
waistband  of  his  trousers,  its  meager  measure  of  relief 
soon  spent.  The  evening  of  the  third  day  sent  Shack 
back  to  his  shed  worn  out  with  tramping  vainly,  yet 
to  wrestle  all  night  with  the  ravening  wolf  at  his  vitals 
and  never  once  to  sleep.  He  was  so  tired  that  his  legs 
fairly  refused  to  hold  him  up  longer,  but  right  away 
he  discovered  that  lying  down  made  the  gnawings 
worse,  made  them  like  knife-thrusts  to  wring  a  cry  of 
agony  from  him,  stoic  though  he  was.  So  he  com- 
promised by  sitting  up  with  his  back  against  the 
boards.  That  was  better,  but  bad  enough  still.  The 
gnawings  tortured  him  terribly  even  when  he  sat  up, 
and  when  he  could  endure  them  no  longer  he  staggered 
to  his  feet, — for  all  the  weariness  he  was  most  com- 
fortable walking.  It  was  as  he  walked,  indeed,  that  he 
came  nearest  to  falling  asleep, — rather  near,  consider- 
ing the  circumstances.  More  than  once  he  lost  him- 
self and  went  down  on  his  knees  and  hands  with  a 
jolt  and  a  renewal  of  the  gnawings  to  wake  him.  He 
was  about  the  miserablest  child  of  the  forest  that 
ever  lost  his  mother.  That  was  the  worst  of  it,  to  be 

80 


Manna  81 

such  a  thorough  child  of  the  forest,  yet  lost  in  a  great 
city.  No  child  of  the  city  lost  in  a  great  forest  could 
be  in  a  worse  pickle. 

There  was  strength  left  in  him,  though,  as  appeared, 
all  at  once,  toward  morning,  when  he  lifted  up  his 
head,  and  snuffed  the  air,  like  a  hound  which  de- 
tects an  interesting  scent,  and  on  the  instant,  like  a 
hound,  bolted  off  at  a  quick,  firm,  confident  pace. 
And  a  scent  it  was,  enormously  interesting,  since  it 
was  the  scent  of  food;  he  was  making  for  it  as  any 
hungry  animal  might,  with  instinct  in  full  control  of 
him.  He  was  famished  down  to  the  level  of  the 
beast,  frankly  obeying  his  instinct. 

Have  you  ever  happened  near  a  great  bakery  just 
as  they  were  opening  the  ovens  and  taking  out  the  new 
bread?  Unless  you  have  you  hardly  know  what  a 
pleasant  fragrance  is  thrown  off.  It  is  wonderfully 
pleasant,  even  though  you  are  not  hungry.  Bakery 
bread  is  mostly  poor  stuff,  to  eat,  but  the  smell  of  it, 
hot,  is  enough  to  put  you  in  mind  of  the  feasts  of  the 
gods. 

And  a  feast  set  for  the  gods  it  might  as  well  have 
been,  for  all  the  good  it  was  to  Shack.  Reason  would 
have  told  him  so,  in  advance,  and  saved  him  the  dis- 
appointment; but  he  was  given  up  to  instinct.  The 
sweet  savor,  drawing  him  on  in  his  instinctive,  ani- 
mal way,  brought  him  presently  to  a  brick  wall,  pierced 
with  doors  and  windows  but  all  shut  to  him.  It  was 
dark  yet,  only  for  the  faint  glimmer  of  dawn,  and 
lights  burned  inside,  and  the  windows  looked  like 
glaring,  baleful  eyes,  while  the  bricks  between  frowned 
blackly.  The  hope  that  had  held  him  up  vanished 
and  with  it  the  strength  it  had  gathered.  He  stag- 
gered back  across  the  street,  and  sank,  or  fell,  on 


82     A  Voice   Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

the  curb,  and  sat  there,  holding  himself  up  with  diffi- 
culty, staring  dazedly  at  the  mocking  windows  and  the 
frowning  bricks.  Cruel !  He  had  known  the  forest 
to  be  cruel,  in  his  day,  but  never  with  such  cruelty 
as  this.  He  was  fallen  to  the  lowest  ebb  of  his  fort- 
unes— nothing  could  be  lower,  not  even  death. 

Only  for  a  little,  however,  did  the  cruelty  afflict 
him,  for  with  the  vanishing  of  hope  and  strength, 
he  grew  dumbly  indifferent,  like  a  sick  ox.  There 
comes  a  time  when  the  gnawings  of  hunger  cease, 
though  starvation  continues, — when  the  nerves  refuse 
to  be  tortured  further  and  the  wolf  takes  himself  off. 
Shack  might  sit  there  until  he  fell  prostrate,  and  lie 
prostrate  until  he  died,  but  he  would  suffer  no  more. 
His  mind  was  pretty  much  a  blank.  The  thief  he 
sought  was  clean  forgotten.  His  father's  business 
was  forgotten.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  he  was 
already  a  dead  man,  only  waiting  to  breathe  his  last. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  die,  just  yet,  or  even 
to  fall  prostrate.  The  drowsiness  increased  as  the 
pain  lessened,  till  he  could  no  longer  hold  his  head 
up;  but  he  had  sense  enough,  or  instinct  enough,  to 
edge  along  the  curb  to  a  big  mail-box  and  a  post  be- 
side it,  they  two  forming  a  corner  where  he  might 
lean  and  doze.  And  while  he  dozed,  crumpled  down 
in  an  abject  heap,  daylight  came  stealing  over  the 
world.  Or  was  it  only  the  daylight  of  his  dreams? 
Anyway,  he  seemed  to  see  across  the  street,  quite 
clearly,  and  to  make  out  a  line  of  men  standing  sil- 
ently at  one  of  the  doors  of  the  bakery.  It  was. a 
singular  thing  for  men  to  be  standing  there,  silently 
waiting, — they  were  like  ghosts,  or  dream-figures. 
And  every  little  while  a  new  ghost  came  up  and  joined 
the  line,  till  it  was  too  long  to  hold  itself  straight,  and 


Manna  83 

doubled  back  upon  itself,  once,  twice,  thrice.  There 
might  be  a  hundred  ghosts  in  line. 

Then  on  a  sudden  a  still  more  singular  thing  ap- 
peared to  happen.  The  door  was  opened,  from  within, 
and  a  man  stepped  out.  He  was  dressed  all  in  white, 
with  a  funny  square  cap  on  his  head,  and  he  had  a 
big  basket  piled  full  of  loaves  of  bread.  Owing  to 
the  denseness  of  the  line,  and  the  uncertain  light, 
Shack  did  not  at  once  see  all  that  was  taking  place, 
but  very  visible  to  him  was  the  stir  among  the  ghosts, 
the  pressing  forward;  and  soon  he  made  out  that  the 
man  in  white  was  handing  each  ghost  a  loaf  from  the 
basket.  As  the  ghosts  got  their  loaves  they  hurried 
off, — two  or  three  came  over  Shack's  way,  and  slunk 
past  him,  eating  ravenously,  by  which  they  would  look 
to  be  real,  and  the  bread  would  look  to  be  real.  Hope 
sprang  up  afresh,  and  afresh  it  found  strength,  and 
instinct  bade  him  rise  once  more.  Others,  be  they 
ghosts  or  men,  were  joining  the  line,  and  a  fear  of 
being  left  out  urged  him.  He  ran  over  and  took  his 
place. 

Before  very  long  his  turn  came  and  he  stood  at  the 
door.  He  trembled  violently.  What  if  it  should  turn 
out  to  be  only  a  dream,  after  all?  But  no,  the  loaf 
was  already  in  his  hands,  a  good  loaf  and  weighty. 
He  halted,  though  there  was  pushing  and  jostling  be- 
hind him, — his  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  and  he 
would  have  spoken.  But  his  voice  failed  him, — he 
could  only  move  his  lips.  Then  the  man  in  white,  the 
ministering  angel  in  his  robes  of  purity,  bade  him 
step  lively,  and  he  had  to  go,  without  a  word. 

Grateful?  It  was  manna  in  the  desert,  no  less.  It 
fed  him  doubly,  not  only  his  body  but  his  soul;  for 
as  he  ate,  he  was  a  thousand  times  more  convinced  of 


84     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

heaven's  aid.  He  considered  not  how  dry  and  old  and 
slight  of  substance  the  bread  was, — it  was  sweetened 
to  him  by  the  manner  of  its  descent.  Next  morning 
he  went  again  to  the  bakery,  and  every  morning,  and 
there  was  always  a  loaf  for  him.  He  never  wore  his 
welcome  out. 

And  now  that  he  was  hungry  no  more,  he  remem- 
bered his  father's  business,  and  his  thief. 

Can  you  fancy  the  ardor  with  which  he  renewed 
his  search,  with  the  thought  upon  him  that  heaven 
gave  him  his  daily  bread,  and  by  that  directed  him 
to  be  up  and  doing?  On  the  ninth  day  he  found  her. 
The  policeman  had  not  prophesied  truly  though  with 
knowledge ;  for  she  showed  herself,  and  he  found  her, 
— and  that,  too,  very  near  the  spot  where  he  had 
met  her  first.  He  knew  her  from  afar,  for  the  look  of 
her  was  graved  on  his  memory, — her  natty  little  fig- 
ure, her  saucy  face  with  its  sparkling  eyes,  and  the 
curls  under  a  sailor  hat  set  jauntily  awry;  he  would 
know  her  among  a  million.  At  sight  of  her  his  heart 
leaped  in  his  bosom,  and  he  hurried  forward.  He  was 
afraid,  too,  and  had  a  feeling  of  weakness  in  his  knees. 
For  all  the  joy,  it  was  a  solemn  thing  which  he  was 
about  to  do,  in  some  sense  an  awful  thing, — awful, 
and  great. 

She  was  speaking  with  a  man.  Shack  came  up  in 
time  to  hear  him  say,  coarsely :  "  Not  in  a  thousand 
years !  "  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  off, 
and  the  little  woman  looked  very  vexed,  and  it  was  in 
that  posture  that  Shack  met  her,  face  to  face. 

For  the  fleetingest  moment  her  countenance  fell 
Then  straightway  it  hardened,  brazenly,  and  she  af- 
fected not  to  know  him. 

But  Shack  was  not  to  be  put  off.     "  My  friend," 


Manna  85 

quoth  he,  huskily,  and  commanding  his  voice  but 
hardly,  "  be  not  afraid.  It  is — I  mean,  I  forgive 
you!" 

The  girl  stared  at  him  with  parted  lips  and  dilat- 
ing eyes, — very  evidently  she  was  astonished.  And 
that  was  as  it  should  be.  No  doubt  Jean  Valjean  had 
been  astonished, — astonishment  first,  and  after  that 
the  light  of  love. 

"  I  forgive  you  the  money — that  is — I  forgive — " 

Somehow,  it  was  a  mighty  difficult  thing,  now  that 
he  was  trying  it,  to  get  himself  into  the  sublime  posi- 
tion of  the  good  bishop.  Somehow,  his  words  fell 
flat,  or  failed  altogether.  And  the  thing  he  was  doing, 
was  it  so  great  and  solemn  ? 

The  girl's  astonishment  passed.  And  then  the  light 
of  love?  No,  a  peal  of  sardonic  laughter. 

"  I  mustn't  be  seen  talking  with  a  gentleman  I 
was  never  introduced  to,"  she  protested,  with  a  mock- 
ing shrug  of  her  pretty  shoulders.  "It  isn't  con- 
sidered respectable,  don't  you  know." 

And  with  that  she  tripped  away,  and  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  throng. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  GRINDER   WHO   IS   GRIST 

THOUGH  the  manna  in  the  desert  was  so  doubly  a 
solace  to  him,  Shack  did  not  forever  depend  on  the 
bakery.  He  became  a  grinder,  and  earned  his  keep 
with  something  besides.  Paul  had  been  a  tentmaker, 
while  in  pursuit  of  his  mission,  but  Shack  was  a 
grinder.  There  was  the  hand  of  heaven  in  it  once 
more, — he  couldn't  help  but  see  that;  he  was  chosen 
a  grinder,  else  things  would  never  have  taken  the 
course  they  did. 

When  he  went  back  to  his  shed  that  night,  after 
finding  his  thief,  a  good  deal  cast  down  by  his  failure 
to  save  her  and  rather  vainly  trying  to  persuade  him- 
self that  the  leaven  might  still  work  within  her  and 
grace  bear  fruit  at  length, — when  he  came  back,  thus, 
his  corner  was  already  occupied  by  a  black  little  man 
who  lay  groaning  dismally  and  proclaiming  himself 
desperately  sick.  He  was  calling  for  help  and  Shack, 
hearing  that,  instantly  forgot  all  else.  The  man 
wanted  water  most, — he  was  burning  with  thirst  and 
his  cup  was  empty  though  it  was  a  large  cup  and  he 
had  been  careful  to  fill  it  before  he  lay  down.  So 
much  he  made  known  in  snatches  of  broken  English, 
mingled  with  groans  and  outcries,  and  besought  Shack 
for  the  love  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  fetch  him  some- 
thing to  drink.  Shack  did  that,  and  more, — fetched 

86 


A  Grinder  Who  is  Grist  87 

water  to  drink  and  water  to  dabble  on  the  throbbing 
temples  and  to  bathe  the  heaving  breast  with,  cold 
water  from  a  deep  well  though  he  had  to  run  the 
better  part  of  a  mile  to  get  such.  But  in  spite  of  all 
the  man  grew  worse  very  fast.  He  raved  a  little, 
and  then  a  little  more,  till  he  was  raving  all  the  time ; 
but  before  he  quite  lost  himself  he  told  Shack  his 
name  was  Beppo  and  his  hour  was  come, — there  was 
a  matter  with  his  inside,  he  declared,  and  he  could 
not  live  beyond  a  few  hours.  In  his  delirium  he 
prayed  incessantly,  in  outlandish  gibberish,  invoking 
the  Virgin  and  every  saint  whose  name  his  memory 
would  yield.  Shack  stood  by  him  faithfully,  all  night 
long,  doing  what  he  could  with  the  cold  water  and 
gentle  rubbing. 

The  delirium  passed  after  a  while.  By  morning 
Beppo  felt  better,  left  off  his  praying  more  and  more, 
and  swore  some,  using  about  the  same  names.  But 
he  was  weak, — he  had  barely  strength  to  raise  him- 
self on  his  elbow.  His  legs  were  quite  useless.  Sev- 
eral times,  at  his  earnest  solicitation,  Shack  lifted  him 
and  stood  him  on  his  feet,  but  it  was  to  no  avail, — 
the  legs  absolutely  refused  to  hold  him  up.  Beppo 
was  mightily  displeased.  He  swore  till  he  was  out  of 
breath  and  then  lay  glowering  and  muttering.  He  had 
an  ugly  face  when  he  scowled. 

"  You  go  Poo  Commis  ?  "  he  broke  out,  after  a  little. 

Shack  would  do  anything,  go  anywhere.  What 
was  the  Poo  Commis? 

"  Here ! "  With  much  fumbling  and  groaning, 
Beppo  fished  a  scrap  of  soiled  paper  out  of  his  pocket. 
"  Poo  Commis  here,"  he  pointed  to  one  side  of  the 
paper.  "  Medicine  here,"  he  pointed  to  the  other. 
"Go  like  hell!  I  hurt." 


88      A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

Shack  understood  sufficiently  and  went,  with  all 
his  Indian  swiftness.  He  showed  the  paper  to  several 
whom  he  met  and  was  sent  on  his  way  without  once 
going  amiss,  to  the  Poor  Commission,  or  Bureau  of 
Public  Charities.  It  was  a  woeful  place,  a  veritable 
slough  of  despond,  where  want,  driven  desperate, 
came  to  find  relief  without  a  touch  of  sympathy. 
There  were  gathered  the  hungry  and  the  sick,  but  more 
especially  the  sick,  to  receive  their  dole,  and  a  chill 
lay  upon  them, — Shack  felt  it  the  moment  he  set  foot 
inside  the  door. 

The  clerks  looked  at  his  paper  and  sent  him  hither 
and  yon,  until  he  had  climbed  all  the  stairs  in  the 
building,  which  he  didn't  mind,  and  lost  much  time, 
which  he  minded  very  much,  thinking  of  Beppo  suf- 
fering so.  They  had  cold,  distant  eyes,  those  clerks, 
and  the  chill  grew  on  him  as  he  passed  from  one  to 
another.  At  last  a  very  young  man  with  glasses  led 
the  way  down  into  the  basement,  where  there  were 
multitudes  of  jars  and  mysterious  gear  of  many  kinds. 

"  Hello,  Bill!  Wie  geht's?  "  he  called  out  to  a  still 
younger  man,  who  was  busy  at  a  table. 

"Ganz  gut,  Henry!"  Bill  called  back. 

They  were  a  cheerful  pair  and  not  content  with  the 
exchange  of  genial  greetings  they  cracked  some  jokes. 
It  was  some  minutes  before  Shack's  business  got  any 
attention. 

"  By  the  way,"  remarked  Henry,  "  that  dago  has 
sent  in  his  prescription  for  more  dope.  Might  as 
well  make  him  up  a  little,  though  nothing'll  save  him. 
His  kidneys  are  all  to  the  bad.  I  told  him  he  couldn't 
live  a  month,  the  last  time  he  was  here.  He  said  then 
he  was  going  down  to  some  shrine  in  Canada,  Ste. 
Anne  de  Something,  and  get  himself  healed.  He  must 


A  Grinder  Who  is  Grist  89 

have  changed  his  mind  or  else  the  old  girl  couldn't 
see  him." 

That  led  to  some  more  jokes  being  cracked,  after 
which  Henry  strolled  back  upstairs,  while  Bill  went 
on  with  his  work,  putting  up  medicines.  He  was  hor- 
ribly slow.  Shack,  waiting  in  an  agony  of  impatience, 
could  hear  Beppo  groan  and  see  him  writhe  as  the  pain 
came  on  him,  and  it  was  almost  more  than  he  could 
bear.  He  reflected  on  what  he  had  heard  about 
Beppo's  kidneys,  which  conveyed  no  very  definite  idea 
to  him,  and  about  the  poor  little  man's  not  living  a 
month,  which  conveyed  an  idea  all  too  definite, — he 
might  be  dying  even  now,  and  for  the  want  of  the 
medicine, — why  couldn't  they  hurry?  Something 
very  like  indignation  rose  in  Shack's  breast,  but  he 
dared  not  give  it  voice, — it  had  never  been  permitted 
him  to  be  indignant.  All  he  could  do  was  to  choke 
over  it,  and  at  last  burst  into  tears,  whereupon  Bill 
was  amused,  asked  what  the  drizzling  was  all  about, 
and  chuckled  to  himself.  After  what  seemed  an  in- 
terminably long  while,  the  chemist  completed  a  pack- 
age and  laid  it  out,  and  Shack  sprang  to  take  it,  think- 
ing it  his.  But  no,  it  wasn't,  and  he  was  sharply  told 
to  wait.  Another  package  was  similarly  completed 
and  laid  out.  His?  No.  Bill  scowled  at  him,  and 
worked  slower  than  ever,  if  such  a  thing  were  pos- 
sible,— worked  as  if  he  delighted  in  torturing  the 
impatient  boy  who  stood  quivering  and  biting  his 
nails.  Three,  four,  five  packages!  Shack's  was  the 
seventh.  He  got  it  after  waiting  an  hour,  and  darted 
away  with  it,  like  the  wind. 

But  now,  when  he  was  back  at  last,  Beppo  wouldn't 
touch  the  medicine, — wouldn't  even  look  at  it.  He 
was  plainly  much  worse,  and  very  bad.  His  face  was 


90     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

ghastly  sunken,  the  mark  of  death  was  already  set 
there.  His  bodily  pain  was  lost  in  the  numbness  of 
approaching  dissolution,  but  now  he  was  frantic  with 
the  agony  of  the  soul. 

"  The  priest ! "  he  cried  out,  the  moment  Shack  ap- 
peared beside  him.  "  Go !  Like  hell !  No,  no,  Holy 
Mother,  I  mean  not  that !  But  go !  " 

Where?  No  matter!  The  nearest  church!  Any 
priest !  Beppo  fairly  shrieked  in  his  excitement. 

Shack  was  off  again,  bolt  from  the  bow,  but  uncer- 
tainly, running  at  random,  with  no  paper  to  show  and 
no  notion  to  guide  him.  What  little  his  experience 
had  taught  him  about  churches  was  swept  away  in 
the  tumult  of  his  emotions,  but  somehow,  when  there 
rose  before  him  a  stone  pile,  with  a  lofty  tower,  in- 
stinct or  what  not  told  him  it  was  what  he  sought. 
He  plunged  up  to  the  front  door,  and  beat  upon  it 
frantically.  He  might  as  well  beat  a  rock  for  all  the 
effect  he  had.  He  hurled  himself  against  it,  and  no 
rock  ever  stood  firmer.  No  entering  there!  But  a 
little  at  one  side  there  was  a  lesser  door,  and  when 
he  flew  at  that,  never  stopping  to  knock,  it  crashed  in 
with  him,  and  he  brought  up  in  the  very  midst  of  a 
little  study,  where  a  man  sat  by  the  table,  writing. 
The  man  was  old,  and  severe  of  aspect,  and  he  was 
startled  and  offended. 

"  This  is  a  private  room !  "  he  snarled.  "  Why  do 
you  come  in  here  in  such  a  fashion  ?  " 

Shack  had  time  and  breath  for  but  one  question: 
Was  he  a  priest? 

"  I  am  not !  "  said  the  man,  sourly. 

Shack  began  to  whimper,  he  was  so  wrought  up. 
"  Beppo  is  dying  and  he  asks  for  a  priest !  "  he  cried. 

The  man  was  softened  a  little.    "  There's  a  Romish 


A   Grinder   Who   is   Grist  91 

establishment  just  below,  I  believe.  I  daresay  you 
will  find  a  priest  there,"  he  said,  more  graciously. 

Shack  didn't  stop  to  ask  which  way  was  below, — he 
tumbled  out  with  as  small  ceremony  as  he  had  tumbled 
in,  and  ran,  the  right  way  as  luck  would  have  it,  and 
in  a  moment  was  confronted  with  another  churchly 
pile  of  stone.  But  here,  aloft  over  the  tower,  there 
glittered  a  gilt  cross,  and  that  meant  something  to 
Shack.  There  had  always  been  a  cross,  though  far 
less  showy,  over  the  chapel  by  the  reservation,  and 
about  that  chapel  there  was  always  a  priest  to  be 
found.  Sectarian  distinctions,  the  quality  which  dif- 
ferentiated a  priest  from  another  clergyman,  such 
things  would  be  little  thought  of  at  any  time  and 
least  of  all  just  now,  yet  Shack,  eagerly  absorbed  in 
his  quest,  was  cheered  to  see  the  cross  aloft, — it  was 
a  sign  of  hope  to  him  for  the  moment  at  least.  And 
then,  almost  in  the  same  instant,  his  eye  lighted  on  a 
figure  in  cap  and  gown,  precisely  the  sort  Father 
James  used  to  wear,  and  Father  Xavier.  By  every 
token,  here  was  a  priest, — that  was  the  glad  thought 
which  surged  up  in  him.  It  was  a  glad  thought,  in- 
deed, and  in  the  rush  of  his  gladness  he  forgot  every- 
thing but  his  errand, — bolted  up  behind  the  man  of 
God,  caught  him  rudely  by  his  cassock,  and  blurted 
out: 

"  Beppo  is  dying!  " 

The  priest  confronted  him  with  a  frown.  "  Never- 
theless you  should  have  better  manners !  "  he  grum- 
bled; and  though  he  did  not  delay  to  answer  the  call, 
stopping  only  to  change  his  coat,  he  was  visibly  out 
of  temper,  the  more  so  as  Shack  led  him  a  hot  pace, 
and  he  was  stout  and  wheezy.  On  the  way  to  the 
shed  he  muttered  maledictions,  or  what  sounded  like 


92     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

nothing  else,  but  once  there,  the  presence  of  death, 
so  near  and  so  evident,  recalled  him  to  his  office. 

"  Well,  my  friend  ?  "  he  said,  bending  benignly  over 
the  sick  man. 

Beppo  answered  with  a  torrent  of  gibberish,  but 
the  priest  seemed  to  follow  him.  "  Leave  us  alone," 
he  said,  to  Shack,  and  Shack  went  outside  and  sat 
down  on  a  pile  of  boards,  dazed  and  perplexed. 

He  could  hear  Beppo  and  the  priest,  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  though  not  their  words.  With  his  sensi- 
tive ear,  and  the  sensitive  soul  behind  it,  he  caught 
the  note  of  penitence  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  note  of 
mild  reproof  mingled  with  indulgence,  on  the  other. 
He  did  not  call  these  things  by  name,  but  he  knew 
very  well  that  Beppo  was  sorely  accusing  himself,  and 
the  priest  was  offering  him  comfort,  and  bringing  it, 
too,  for  presently  the  note  in  Beppo's  voice  changed, 
— the  terror  was  gone  and  in  its  stead  there  was  con- 
fidence, and  peace.  Shack  listened  in  awe  to  Beppo 
cooing  softly,  like  a  child  that  falls  asleep. 

Then  the  priest  called  to  him  to  come  back,  and  he 
went  in.  Beppo  lay  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  small 
cross,  babbling  like  a  drowsy  baby,  contentedly,  with- 
out a  trace  of  anxiety.  The  sight  of  that  little  cross 
stirred  Shack's  memory  afresh.  Father  James  had 
just  such  a  cross,  and  Father  Xavier.  It  was  the  only 
really  pretty  thing  they  carried  with  them ;  their  robes 
were  hideous,  but  the  little  cross  was  very  pretty. 
Anyway,  Shack  always  considered  it  so.  There  was 
the  figure  of  a  naked  man  carved  on  it,  and  that  struck 
him  especially, — he  had  often  speculated,  in  his  vacant, 
aimless  fashion,  about  that  naked  man.  He  was  spec- 
ulating now.  He  was  wool-gathering  when  the  priest 


A  Grinder  Who  is  Grist  93 

bade  him  kneel  down,  and  did  not  at  once  compre- 
hend, and  the  command  had  to  be  repeated: 

"  Kneel !    You  are  in  the  presence  of  God !  " 

Shack's  legs  gave  way  under  him  all  at  once,  and 
down  he  went,  nearly  prostrate.  The  priest  opened  a 
leather  case  which  hung  from  a  ribbon  round  his  neck, 
and  took  out  a  bit  of  something  which  he  put  in 
Beppo's  mouth,  after  making  some  curious  motions. 
Curious,  but  were  they  unfamiliar?  And  the  words 
which  the  priest  mumbled,  were  they  unfamiliar,  even 
though  meaningless? 

"  Corp — Dom — nostri  —  custodiat  animam  —  eter- 
nam — " 

It  was  Father  James's  singsong  all  over  again. 
And  that  which  the  priest  put  in  Beppo's  mouth,  what 
could  it  be  but  some  of  the  dry,  hard,  sour  bread 
which  Shack  remembered  so  well?  Had  he  not  suf- 
fered the  missionary  to  put  a  piece  of  it  in  his  own 
mouth  once?  Only  once,  though,  because  he  didn't 
fancy  it  in  the  least.  He  would  have  spat  it  out,  so 
little  did  he  fancy  it,  only  that  he  had  been  warned  of 
the  fearfulest  consequences  to  ensue  if  he  should. 

Why,  then,  should  Beppo  fancy  it  so  hugely?  He 
took  it  eagerly,  with  a  lighting  up  of  his  eyes;  and 
when  he  had  swallowed  it,  he  lay  back  perfectly  at  his 
ease, — gently  drowsing,  cooing  softly,  like  nothing  so 
much  as  a  baby  just  fed.  Nobody  could  better  seem 
to  fancy  a  thing  than  Beppo  seemed  to  fancy  that 
bit  of  hard  bread. 

The  priest  stood  up  and  put  on  his  hat,  but  Shack 
remained  kneeling,  raptly.  The  spectacle  of  death 
robbed  of  all  its  terrors,  of  death  the  near  brother  of 
sleep, — so  much  of  the  reality  he  saw;  the  rest  was 
fallen  quite  away, — the  squalid  shed  and  all  the 


94     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

squalid  city  round  about.  With  Beppo  dying  he  was 
back  among  the  pines,  in  the  silence  and  solitude, 
absorbed  in  contemplation.  The  priest  laid  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and  not  lightly, — many  a  time  he  had 
jumped  for  less.  But. he  did  not  jump,  or  raise  his 
head  even,  or  respond  in  any  way.  It  took  consider- 
able of  a  shake  to  make  him  look  up,  and  when  he 
looked  up  it  was  without  understanding, — he  was 
still  far  afield. 

The  priest  wished  to  leave  some  directions. 

"  I  am  going  to  notify  the  authorities,"  he  said, 
"  and  request  them  to  remove  this  man  to  a  proper 
place.  Do  you  stay  till  they  come." 

No  need  to  bid  Shack  to  stay, — he  was  all  but 
rooted  to  the  spot.  He  was  still  kneeling  when  Beppo 
at  length  turned  his  head  and  feebly  beckoned  him 
to  draw  nearer,  and  kneeling  he  made  his  way  over, 
in  a  hobbling  manner.  But  by  that  his  dream  was 
broken  up,  the  reality  came  back,  every  fiber  of  human 
pity  in  him  was  touched,  and  he  wept,  bowing  his 
head  to  the  very  ground. 

"  You  cry  ?  "  exclaimed  Beppo,  astonished.  "  Why 
you  cry  ?  You  not  my  people !  Why  you  cry  ?  " 

Not  for  Shack  to  fathom  his  emotions, — they  were 
to  him  as  the  wind  which  bloweth  where  it  listeth; 
he  knew  the  effect  thereof,  but  none  so  ignorant  as 
he  of  their  origins.  Perhaps  Beppo  was  mistaken  in 
deeming  those  copious  tears  altogether  a  sign  of  sor- 
row, but  what  else  are  tears  a  sign  of  commonly?  At 
all  events,  he  was  profoundly  touched  and  pleased. 
He  stretched  out  his  failing  hand  and  laid  it  on 
Shack's  bowed  head,  and  he  caressed  the  brown  curls 
fondly.  His  countenance  beamed  with  joy  and  was 
almost  beautiful. 


A  Grinder  Who  is  Grist  95 

"  I  gif  it  you !  "  he  said.     "  I  gif  you  it !  " 

Shack  was  deaf,  and  Beppo  had  to  pull  his  hair  im- 
patiently before  he  would  give  heed. 

"  Go  bring!  "  commanded  the  sick  man,  and  pointed 
over  to  a  dark  corner  of  the  shed. 

The  habit  of  obedience  was  strong,  and  Shack  went. 
And  that  which  he  was  to  bring  was  a  grinder's  wheel. 
He  found  it,  where  Beppo  had  concealed  it  before 
lying  down, — to  sleep  as  he  supposed,  to  die  as  the 
event  proved.  It  was  quite  an  elaborate  contrivance, 
furnished  with  a  peal  of  little  silvery  bells  which  rang 
as  the  wheel  moved.  They  were  merry  bells,  and 
Beppo's  eyes  danced  at  the  sound  of  them. 

"  I  gif  you  it! "  he  repeated,  and  laughed  aloud,  out 
of  sheer  good  feeling. 

Shack's  tears  flowed  afresh, — he  understood  or  felt, 
at  least,  the  solemn  pathos  of  the  gift. 

"  You  will  use  it  yourself,"  he  protested.  "  You 
will  be  well." 

"  No,  I  go,"  said  Beppo,  laughing  still,  and  then  he 
lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes,  and  prayed,  cooingly, 
drowsily,  contentedly. 

And  he  went,  very  presently,  with  the  light  of  per- 
fect hope  in  his  dark  face,  like  a  baby  falling  asleep. 
And  Shack,  sunk  down  in  the  litter,  poured  out  his 
tears  in  a  flood. 

Those  authorities  were  some  time  coming,  and 
when  they  came  Beppo  was  dead,  and  Shack  had  had 
his  cry  out, — he  was  sitting  quietly  by,  like  a  stoical 
Indian,  or  a  dog.  They  brought  an  ambulance,  first, 
but  it  was  too  late  for  that,  and  they  went  away,  with 
considerable  grumbling  over  the  unnecessary  trouble 
they  had  taken,  and  came  again,  with  a  very  ordinary 
wagon  and  a  cheap  coflm,  into  which  they  tumbled 


96     A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

Beppo  and  carried  him  off.  Shack  would  have  fol- 
lowed, like  a  dog,  because  instinct  bade  him  do  so,  but 
they  didn't  ask  him  to  ride,  and  they  whipped  up  and 
drove  off  so  fast  that  he  couldn't  keep  in  sight  of 
them,  good  runner  though  he  was.  He  did  his  utmost, 
however,  and  gave  up  with  a  great,  quivering  sigh, 
and  went  back  to  the  shed,  and  his  wheel,  which  he 
had  forgotten. 

That  was  how  he  became  a  grinder. 

It  was  a  sufficiently  apostolic  calling, — as  good  as 
tent-making,  possibly  better;  it  brought  him  in  con- 
tact with  many  men  of  many  kinds,  whereas  tent- 
making  was  a  secluded  business.  Paul,  making  tents, 
was  no  doubt  cooped  up  in  some  loft,  but  Shack,  grind- 
ing knives  and  scissors,  was  very  much  in  and  of  the 
world. 

A  passably  lucrative  calling,  too.  There  were  days 
when  he  would  earn  as  much  as  fifty  cents, — those 
were  the  red-letter  days.  It  wasn't  so  much  that  fifty 
.cents  meant  plenty  to  eat  for  himself,  because  ten  cents 
meant  that ;  the  beauty  of  fifty  cents,  whereby  the  day 
of  its  earning  became  signal,  lay  in  the  fact  that  it 
meant  plenty  to  eat  for  so  many  others  besides, — four 
or  five,  at  least. 

Whatsoever  he  earned,  be  it  much  or  little,  he  spent 
that  day,  and  sun  of  the  morrow  always  found  him 
penniless;  and  all  beyond  a  meager  fraction  went  for 
the  behoof  of  the  less  fortunate.  Besides  the  ten  cents 
which  his  food  cost  he  reserved  nothing  to  himself 
except  when  it  was  very  cold, — then  he  hired  a  lodging 
of  the  cheapest  sort,  costing  another  ten  cents.  Some 
days,  for  grinders  have  their  ups  and  downs,  he 
earned  nothing;  then  he  ate  nothing,  and  if  it  was  too 


A  Grinder  Who  is  Grist  97 

cold  to  sleep  in  the  shed,  he  would  walk  the  streets 
all  night. 

His  home  was  in  the  slums,  with  the  poorest  and 
wretchedest  and  worst,  and  there  he  got  to  be  well 
known.  His  familiars  always  called  him  "  the  par- 
son." That  was  the  name  he  went  by,  down  there, — 
strangely,  since  he  never  spoke  of  religion  or  even 
professed  to  be  religious. 

He  was  known  outside  the  slums,  too.  With  the 
respectable  people  to  whom  he  looked  for  patronage, 
he  enjoyed  some  distinction, — he  was  such  a  grinder 
of  grinders.  Certain  women,  more  than  a  few,  would 
have  nobody  else  sharpen  their  scissors,  if  they  could 
get  Shack, — they  would  wait  for  him,  putting  them- 
selves to  inconvenience.  That  was  partly  because  he 
did  good  work,  what  with  his  native  deftness  and  his 
wish  to  master  the  art;  but  there  was  more  especially 
his  charming  manner,  so  gentle,  and  genuine,  and  cal- 
culated to  please  women.  Then,  too,  he  was  un- 
deniably a  handsome  grinder.  In  another  business, 
where  handsome  men  were  commoner,  his  beauty 
might  not  strike  you  so  forcibly,  but  for  a  grinder  he 
was  truly  beautiful,  with  his  clustering  brown  hair, 
and  his  pale,  refined  face,  and  his  lustrous,  smoldering 
eyes.  Often  women  would  find  themselves  not  too 
busy  to  stand  beside  him  while  he  ground  their  scissors, 
and  talk  with  him,  as  if  they  enjoyed  his  company  and 
conversation,  as  why  should  they  not? 


CHAPTER  V 

NOT  WELCOME 

IT  was  to  his  being  a  grinder,  of  so  distinguished  a 
sort,  that  Shack  owed  his  remarkable  encounter  with 
the  bishop.  If  he  hadn't  been  a  grinder,  he  would 
hardly  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  Nora,  the 
bishop's  pretty  Irish  housemaid;  and  if  he  had  been 
an  ordinary  grinder,  like  Beppo  in  his  day,  Nora 
wouldn't  have  kept  all  her  scissors  for  him,  and  got 
him  in  the  way  of  visiting  the  bishop's  house  regu- 
larly. Nor  would  she  have  been  standing  with  him 
by  the  kitchen  door,  that  day,  to  tell  him  who  the 
bishop  was. 

Shack  didn't  know  in  the  least  until  then.  He  was 
grinding  away,  and  Nora  was  chattering  away,  when 
a  wonderful  grand  carriage  drew  up  at  the  front  door, 
and  a  personage  clad  in  the  most  wonderful  bright 
robes  got  out  and  went  in.  Shack  were  no  Indian  not 
to  be  affected  by  bright  colors,  and  so  struck  was  he 
now  that  he  let  his  wheel  stop  while  he  gave  himself 
up  to  frank  admiration. 

Who  was  the  personage?  Shack  asked  Nora  that, 
and  Nora  replied,  why,  it  was  his  lordship. 

"  His  lordship ! "  repeated  Shack,  not  much  in- 
formed. 

"  The  bishop,  of  course ! "  said  Nora,  laughing  at 
his  ignorance.  "  This  is  the  bishop's  palace.  Didn't 
you  know  that  ?  " 

98 


A   Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness       99 

No,  he  didn't  know  that. 

Nora  had  other  fish  to  fry,  as  the  saying  is,  and  fish 
which  interested  her  more,  and  she  prattled  on,  viva- 
ciously; but  Shack  had  lost  his  ears.  He  paid  no  at- 
tention to  her  whatever.  She  pouted,  plainly  signify- 
ing that  she  was  on  the  edge  of  being  displeased,  if 
not  already  over ;  and  at  length,  his  neglect  being  too 
much  to  bear,  she  flounced  into  the  house,  and  left 
him  alone.  In  a  little  while,  relenting  somewhat,  she 
peeped  out,  and  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Her 
scissors,  a  delicate  pair  which  she  used  to  trim  her 
pretty  nails  with,  lay  on  the  step,  only  half  ground. 

Shack  was  gone.  He  had  slung  his  wheel  over  his 
shoulder,  to  keep  the  peals  from  ringing,  and  made 
off  to  his  shed.  There  he  put  the  wheel  away,  and 
took  out  his  worn  and  tattered  Les  Miserables,  to  read. 

Bishop? 

Well,  one  thing  was  very  clear, — Bishop  Welcome 
rode  in  no  such  carriage  and  dwelt  in  no  such  palace. 
On  the  contrary,  he  walked,  or  rode  a  very  poor 
donkey,  and  he  dwelt  in  a  hovel.  This  hovel,  by  the 
way,  had  been  the  diocesan  hospital,  when  Monsignor 
Welcome  ascended  to  the  episcopacy;  but  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  order  the  sick  people  removed  to 
the  fine  building  which  had  been  the  bishop's  palace 
hitherto,  and  that  henceforth  was  the  hospital,  while 
he  went  to  live  in  the  old  hospital,  which  henceforth 
was  the  episcopal  residence.  It  was  there  he  enter- 
tained Jean  Valjean,  forgave  him,  shot  the  light  of 
love  into  his  darkened  soul.  What  had  palaces  and 
grand  carriages  to  do  with  the  proper  business  of  a 
bishop,  anyway? 

Shack  read  until  the  light  of  day  failed.  When  it 
was  too  dark  to  make  out  the  words,  he  went  forth 
into  the  streets,  to  walk  about,  and  make  up  his  mind. 


ioo  Not  Welcome 

It  was  the  slums,  his  home,  the  haunts  where  he  was 
no  stranger.  Many  spoke  to  him,  both  men  and 
women.  There  was  in  particular  a  woman,  of  the 
kind  of  his  thief, — anyway,  you  would  naturally  set 
her  down  to  be  that,  and  probably  make  no  mistake. 
She  had  the  jaunty,  reckless  bearing,  and  the  brassy 
face. 

Her  name  was  Sadie.  That  was  what  Shack  called 
her,  when  she  accosted  him. 

"  Seems  to  me  you  don't  look  very  well,  to-night, 
Sadie,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  sick  enough  to  croak,  right  now,"  she  an- 
swered, the  jauntiness  melting  into  a  woeful  look 
under  the  touch  of  sympathy.  "  I  guess  I'm  about 
all  in,  parson." 

Why  had  she  come  out  then  ? 

The  girl  laughed,  at  the  question.  "  Out ! "  she 
repeated,  bitterly.  "  I'm  already  out.  I  can't  go  in 
till  I  make  the  price !  " 

"  If  I  get  you  a  good  room,  will  you  go  there  and 
rest  ?  "  he  asked. 

Sadie  laughed  once  more.  "  Try  me ! "  she  said, 
and  her  bitter,  sullen  laughter  made  out  that  she  wasn't 
expecting  favors. 

They  were  a  curious  pair,  walking  on  together,  and 
they  didn't  escape  comment.  Nor  was  the  comment 
considerate  or  much  restrained.  Yet  it  was  not  ill 
meant, — bums  and  wantons  made  broad  remarks,  but 
you  could  see  it  was  mostly  chaff,  their  poor  manner 
of  good-humored  raillery.  Shack  took  it  in  good  part, 
but  Sadie's  dejection  grew  on  her  with  every  sally. 
The  forced  professional  simper  had  fled  her  counte- 
nance at  once,  and  her  mouth  drooped  more  and  more 
dismally,  with  a  quiver  about  the  lips  to  show  that  it 
wouldn't  take  much  to  make  her  cry. 


A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness      101 

"  What  do  you  mind  me  for,  parson?  "  she  suddenly 
broke  out. 

"  Because  you're  a  friend  of  mine,  of  course," 
Shack  replied.  "  Anybody  likes  to  do  his  friends  a 
good  turn." 

She  flared  up  hotly :  "  Not  by  a  damnsight ! 
You're  the  only  one  I  ever  met  up  with  and  that's  be- 
cause you're  simple.  If  the  likes  of  me  was  to  fall 
down  on  the  street  for  being  too  sick  to  stand  up, 
they'd  kick  me  out  of  the  way  and  that's  all.  If  I  was 
to  die  right  here  and  now  they'd  bury  me  in  a  sand- 
bank somewhere,  just  to  get  me  out  of  their  way!  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  mean  that,  Sadie ! "  Shack  pro- 
tested, soothingly. 

"  Parson,  you're  a  damn  fool !  "  the  girl  snapped, 
but  with  that  the  flood  broke,  and  she  wept  noisily. 
"  God !  it's  a  damp  night,"  a  hoodlum  called  out,  in 
derision,  but  Sadie  only  gave  herself  up  the  more  to 
her  emotions.  A  patrolman  passed  by,  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile.  He  understood  Sadie's  lamentations, — 
they  called  for  no  interference  on  his  part. 

Shack  took  her  to  a  lodging-house  visibly  cleaner 
and  brighter  than  the  most  and  emptied  his  pockets  to 
hire  the  best  room  for  her.  She  had  spent  the  fury  of 
her  grief,  by  that  time,  and  was  snivelling  out  its  last 
gusty  remnants. 

"  Good-night,  Sadie !  "  he  said.  "  Stay  in  bed 
twenty-four  hours  and  it'll  make  a  new  girl  of  you." 

"  A  new  girl,  back  to  the  old  life !  What's  the 
use?"  she  whimpered,  but  he  didn't  stop  to  parley 
further.  He  gave  her  another  cheery  good-night  and 
left  her. 

He  had  gone  but  a  short  way  when  he  was  held  up 
by  a  hulk  of  a  man,  who  was  bloated  with  drink  and 
so  near  the  snakes  that  he  shook  like  one  palsied. 


102  Not  Welcome 

"  Hullo,  parson !  "  this  fellow  bawled,  with  maudlin 
cordiality.  "  You're  the  chap  I'm  looking  for.  Give 
me  the  price  of  a  drink !  " 

"  Not  a  cent  left,  to-night,  Gus,"  said  Shack. 

"  You  lie !  "  shouted  the  inebriate,  angrily.  "  Be- 
cause I  want  it  for  booze,  you  won't  give  it  to  me !  " 
But  at  once  his  manner  changed  wholly,  and  he  begged 
abjectly:  "  Please,  parson!  A  drink  will  take  me 
out  of  hell." 

"  If  I  get  a  drink  for  you,  will  you  go  home  with 
me,  then  ?  " 

"  God,  yes !    Anything  you  say.    I'm  burning  up !  " 

There  was  a  groggery  at  hand, — there  was  always 
a  groggery  at  hand,  in  those  regions.  They  stepped 
into  it. 

"  Will  you  give  this  man  a  drink,  if  I  promise  to 
pay  you  with  the  first  money  I  earn  ?  "  Shack  asked 
the  barkeep. 

That  functionary  made  no  reply  except  to  jerk  his 
thumb  toward  a  sign  on  the  wall :  "  In  God  we 
trust.  All  others  cash ! "  Gus  was  instantly  on  fire 
with  indignation,  poured  out  a  torrent  of  profane  pro- 
test and  abuse,  and  avowed  his  more  than  readiness  to 
fight  any  semblance  of  a  man  who  should  dare  ques- 
tion the  parson's  word,  or  intimate  a  doubt  of  his  en- 
gagements being  scrupulously  kept.  But  the  barkeep 
was  unmoved,  and  Shack  pulled  his  turbulent  com- 
panion out  and  away. 

"I'll  knock  the  block  off  anybody  that  insults  you !  " 
blustered  the  man,  and  cried  that  he  had  all  hell  inside 
of  him,  for  God's  sake  get  him  a  drop  of  something! 

They  tried  three  other  groggeries,  only  to  fail,  but 
with  the  fourth  they  succeeded.  The  proprietor  of  the 
place  happened  to  be  behind  the  bar,  and  he  was  will- 
ing to  take  Shack's  pledge, — a  sale  was  a  sale,  the 


A   Voice   Crying  in  the  Wilderness      103 

price  was  nearly  all  profit,  and  he  knew  the  risk  was 
next  to  nothing.  A  great  slug  of  what  passed  for 
whiskey,  a  fiery  draught,  was  forthcoming,  and  Gus 
put  it  down  with  a  look  of  unspeakable  relief.  He 
was  steadier,  too,  forthwith;  the  palsy  vanished  and 
his  eyes,  though  puffed  and  bloodshot,  shone  with 
gratefuler  visions  than  green  rabbits  and  such  like, — 
he  was  out  of  his  hell,  for  the  moment. 

He  went,  more  willessly  than  willingly,  when  Shack 
took  him  by  the  arm  to  lead  him,  and  together  they 
threaded  the  streets  down  to  the  shed  by  the  docks. 
There  was  need  to  hurry,  too, — the  vile  liquor  would 
not  long  leave  Gus  the  use  of  his  legs.  Its  stupefying, 
numbing  effects  began  almost  at  once  to  be  visible  and 
by  the  time  they  reached  their  destination  the  man 
could  hardly  raise  his  feet  from  the  ground  and  the 
moment  they  halted  at  last  he  went  down  in  a  help- 
less heap, — unconscious  and  snoring. 

He  lay  a  long  time  so, — until  broad  day.  Shack 
sat  beside  him,  reading,  when  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Hullo,  parson,  damn  you !  "  he  said,  thickly,  as 
soon  as  his  fogged  intellect  found  itself  a  little. 

"  Hullo,  Gus,"  rejoined  Shack.  "  How  do  you 
feel?" 

"  No  matter,"  was  the  drunkard's  testy  retort. 
"  That's  my  business.  What  I  want  to  know  is  why 
you  take  so  much  trouble  for  me.  I'm  a  hell  of  a 
feller!" 

Shack  vouchsafed  no  reply  to  that  sentiment. 

"  I  wonder  if  you're  damn  fool  enough  to  buy  me 
another  drink,  parson?" 

"  Maybe.  Still  I  thought  you  might  want  to  go  to 
work,  this  morning.  Can't  I  help  you  about  that, 
Gus?" 

"  Work !    You  know  a  damn  sight  better.     I  don't 


104  Not  Welcome 

want  to  go  to  work.  Why  don't  you  come  right  out 
with  it,  parson?  You  want  me  to  go  to  work  and  by 
God,  I'm  going.  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  another  soul  but 
you, — so  help  God  I  wouldn't !  " 

The  man  was  a  sailor,  and  for  such  as  he  there  was 
no  lack  of  employment  during  the  season  of  naviga- 
tion. Because,  being  sailors,  they  were  bound  to  jump 
their  jobs  at  every  port,  one  or  two  or  three  from 
every  vessel,  there  was  always  to  be  found  a  captain 
short  of  hands.  Before  noon  Gus  was  aboard,  and  at 
work. 

And  now  Shack  turned  to  affairs  more  especially  his 
own.  He  repaired  to  the  bishop's.  With  the  bishop, 
to-day,  he  had  business. 

He  marched  up  to  the  front  door  and  rang  the  bell, 
and  it  was  Nora  who  answered.  She  had  not  forgot- 
ten his  rudeness  of  the  day  before,  and  the  scissors 
half  ground, — though  she  was  surprised  to  see  him 
there,  she  could  bethink  her  to  give  him  a  very 
haughty  look. 

"  Nothing  to-day,"  she  said,  and  added,  with  crush- 
ing asperity :  "  You  are  to  come  to  the  back  door, 
always ! " 

Shack  looked  at  her,  and  saw  her  not ;  there  was  no 
Nora  in  the  world,  for  him,  any  more. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  the  bishop,"  he  said. 

Nora  flushed, — it  is  a  species  of  insult  where  a 
man  declines  to  be  affected  by  the  displeasure  which 
a  woman  is  at  such  pains  to  advertise;  no  doubt  she 
could  with  good  heart  have  shut  the  door  in  his  face, 
and  would  have  done  so  only  that  she  was  there  to 
let  people  in  and  not  to  keep  them  out.  Still  she  had 
her  arrow  left,  and  she  let  it  fly. 

"  The  chancellor  isn't  in,  but  you  may  wait  for 
him,"  she  said. 


A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness       105 

"  The  chancellor!  "  repeated  Shack,  doubtfully. 

"  He  looks  after  matters  which  are  not  so  import- 
ant, you  know,"  said  Nora,  bitingly. 

And  even  by  that  Shack  was  not  affected,— not  as 
she  would  have  him,  at  least.  He  gave  no  sign  what- 
ever of  being  hurt  in  his  feelings.  However,  he  shook 
his  head,  decidedly. 

"  It  is  the  bishop  I  wish  to  speak  with,"  quoth  he. 

Nora  bit  her  lip.  Could  anything  be  more  pro- 
voking? "I  don't  suppose  his  lordship  will  care  to 
see  you !  "  she  snapped,  and  then,  frightened  at  her- 
self, she  hastened  to  bid  Shack  in, — she  would  tell 
the  bishop  he  was  there. 

She  led  up  through  a  gloomy  corridor  to  a  great 
cold  room  hung  with  strange  pictures,  of  men  in  gor- 
geous robes  and  women  with  glowing  rings  round 
their  heads.  She  did  not  ask  him  to  have  a  chair, — 
though  her  volatile  anger  was  gone  almost  at  once 
and  she  darted  him  a  bright  glance  which  plainly  meant 
forgiveness  and  conciliation,  he  had  no  such  glance 
to  give  her  back,  and  so,  with  a  proud  curl  of  her 
lip,  she  left  him  to  stand  and  wait. 

The  bishop  was  a  long  time  coming.  Not  in- 
conceivably the  offended  housemaid,  with  all  she  had 
endured,  managed  to  intimate  to  his  lordship  that  the 
person  was  of  no  importance;  but  whether  or  no,  it 
was  near  half  an  hour  that  Shack  was  kept  standing. 
He  did  not  once  move.  On  the  very  square  of  car- 
pet where  Nora  had  left  him,  the  bishop  found  him. 

A  lordly  figure  the  bishop  was,  rustling  in  his  long 
robes,  doubly  impressive  in  his  own  house,  with  all 
the  proper  settings.  They  were  much  brighter  robes 
than  he  had  worn  in  his  coach,  with  more  purple  in 
them, — a  great  deal,  in  fact ;  and  nothing  could  be 
more  effective,  in  the  cold  and  quiet  of  the  great  room, 


io6  Not  Welcome 

than  this  purple.  Shack  drank  in  the  brave  sight  and 
his  eyes  glowed, — he  was  near  forgetting  himself, 
so  strong  was  the  appeal  to  the  Indian.  Not  till  the 
bishop  spoke,  asking,  not  unpleasantly,  what  he  could 
do  for  him,  was  he  reminded  of  his  high  purpose. 

Thereupon  ensued  a  colloquy,  the  like  of  which 
probably  never  was  before,  between  a  bishop  and  a 
grinder.  His  lordship  was  greatly  astonished,  though 
he  did  not  know  his  visitor  for  a  grinder,  and  you 
would  be  even  more  so,  since  you  are  better  acquainted 
with  the  fellow, — at  his  language,  especially,  the 
phrases  thereof  gropingly  derived  from  Dr.  Robert's 
books  and  rudely  adapted,  by  laborious  conning  and 
without  being  any  too  well  understood,  to  the  expres- 
sion of  thoughts  all  out  of  joint  with  accepted  no- 
tions. 

Grinder :    "  You  are  a  bishop  ?  " 
Bishop :    "  In  my  unworthy  way,  yes." 
Grinder :     "  Then  why  do  you  live  in  this  costly 
palace  and  ride  in  that  costly  coach  and  wear  those 
costly  robes  ?  " 

Bishop  (graciously,  after  a  moment's  hesitation)  : 
"  It  is  customary  for  one  in  my  station,  I  believe. 
These  things  are  prescribed  by  custom." 

Grinder :  "  Jesus  did  not  live  in  a  palace  or  ride 
in  a  coach  ?  " 

Bishop :  "  No,  that  is  true." 

Grinder:  "You  are  commanded  to  follow  him?" 
Bishop  (with  a  smile  and  a  shrug)  :  "  All  men  are 
so  commanded.    No  man  does  that  thing.    The  spirit 
is  willing  but  the  flesh  is  weak." 

Grinder :  "  Would  you  have  all  men  follow  Jesus — 
to  do  as  Jesus  did?  " 

Bishop:  "  By  all  means.    Wouldn't  you?  " 
Grinder:  "No,  because  if  all  men  were  to  follow 


A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness      107 

Jesus,  the  race  would  perish.  If  all  men  were  to 
crucify  the  carnal  self,  as  he  did,  the  race  would 
perish  from  the  earth,  I  tell  you ! " 

Bishop  (casting  up  his  eyes)  :  "  To  dwell  forever- 
more  in  heaven ! " 

Grinder  (perplexed  and  shifting)  :  "  Why  don't 
you  marry?  " 

Bishop :  "  I  am  forbidden  to  marry." 

Grinder:  "  Who  forbids  you?  " 

Bishop :  "  Holy  Mother  Church." 

Grinder :  "  Holy  Mother  Church  doesn't  forbid  all 
men  to  marry?  " 

Bishop :  "  On  the  contrary.  Marriage  is  a  blessed 
relation  highly  commended  to  the  faithful." 

Grinder :  "  If  it  is  a  blessed  relation  for  others, 
why  not  for  you  ?  " 

Bishop :  "  St.  Paul  says  that  he  who  is  unmarried 
careth  for  the  things  of  the  Lord,  how  he  may  please 
God.  But  he  who  is  married  is  solicitous  about  the 
things  of  the  world,  how  he  may  please  his  wife,  and 
he  is  divided." 

Grinder  (eagerly)  :  "  Is  it  not  expected  of  you  that 
you  will  follow  Jesus  more  nearly  than  other  men  ?  " 

Bishop  (shrugging)  :  "  Ah,  doubtless.  An  expec- 
tation all  too  often  disappointed.  In  our  poor,  hu- 
man way,  we  of  the  clergy  try  to  show  men  how  to 
live." 

Grinder :  "  You  follow  Jesus,  with  the  hope  that 
men  will  follow  you  ?  " 

Bishop.  "  As  we  are  worthy,  and  worthily  exemplify 
the  divine  pattern." 

Grinder :  "  When  you  do  not  marry  you  follow 
Jesus,  yet  you  don't  wish  men  to  follow  you  ?  " 

Bishop  (with  a  touch  of  weariness)  :  "  I  have  al- 
ready explained  why  the  clergy  do  not  marry." 


io8  Not  Welcome 

Grinder  (perplexed,  fumbling  over  a  book  which 
he  has  drawn  from  his  pocket)  :  "  You  have  heard 
of  St.  Francis  ?  " 

Bishop  (smiling  indulgently)  :  "OfAssisi?  Oh, 
yes,  indeed ! " 

Grinder:  "  He  was  a  clergyman?  " 

Bishop:  "He  was." 

Grinder :  "  He  had  power  over  men,  to  bend  their 
wills?" 

Bishop :  "  That  is  a  fact  of  history,  I  believe.  He 
was  a  very  wonderful  man." 

Grinder:  "In  what  was  he  wonderful?" 

Bishop :  "  In  his  power,  which  you  mention." 

Grinder:  "How  did  he  come  by  his  power?" 

Bishop :  "  By  his  spirituality,  no  doubt." 

Grinder :  "  What  is  spirituality  ?  " 

Bishop :  "  Briefly,  unworldiness.  Holy  elevation  of 
soul.  Disassociation  from  carnal  promptings." 

Grinder  (glowing,  yet  perplexed)  :  "  The  proof  of 
this — the  proof  of  spirituality  is — is " 

Bishop :  "  In  a  word,  sacrifice.  The  proof  and  the 
fruit  of  spirituality  is  sacrifice." 

Grinder  (after  a  pause)  :  "  Could  you  do  your  ap- 
pointed work  better  if  you  had  the  power  of  St. 
Francis?  " 

Bishop :  "  That  goes  without  saying." 

Grinder  (impatiently,  almost  in  the  tone  of  rebuke)  : 
"  Then  why  don't  you  get  it  ?  Why  don't  you  prove 
to  the  world  your  holy  elevation  of  soul  ?  " 

Bishop  (amused)  :  "  How — for  instance?  " 

Grinder :  "  Well,  you  might  put  away  your  palace 
and  your  coach,  as  Bishop  Welcome  did." 

Bishop  (surprised):  "Welcome?  Who  is  he?  I 
seem  never  to  have  heard  of  that  bishop." 

Grinder  (fumbles  over  his  book  and  at  length  reads 


A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness      109 

from  it,  in  a  halting  manner)  :  "  '  If  any  man  come  to 
me  and  hate  not  his  father,  and  mother,  and  wife, 
and  children,  and  brother,  and  sister,  yea,  and  his  own 
life  also,  he  cannot  be  my  disciple.'  Who  said  that?  " 

Bishop  (bowing  his  head) :  "  Our  blessed  Re- 
deemer !  " 

Grinder :  "  He  would  have  His  disciples  to  be  very 
spiritual?  " 

Bishop:  "Very!" 

Grinder :  "  He  bids  His  disciples  crucify  and  deny 
the  promptings,  the — the — the  things  which  get  the 
race  perpetuated " 

Bishop :  "  I  see  your  difficulty,  my  friend.  You 
take  the  word  hate  too  literally.  You  should  take  it 
with  a  reservation, — in  a  figurative  sense.  The  law 
of  Christ  does  not  permit  us  to  hate  even  our  enemies, 
much  less  our  parents  or  our  children.  The  meaning 
of  the  text  is  that  we  must  be  in  such  a  disposition  of 
soul  as  to  be  willing  to  renounce  and  part  with  every- 
thing, how  near  and  dear  soever  it  may  be  to  us, 
that  would  keep  us  from  following  Christ." 

Grinder  (with  sudden  energy)  :  "No!  I  say  NO! 
It  is  more.  It  is  only  you, — it  is  only  the  clergy  who 
are  told  to  do  so.  Not  common  men.  No,  no !  You 
are  to  do  what  Jesus  bids  you.  If  you  put  away  wife 
and  children  and  father  and  mother  is  it  not  sacrifice, 
the  proof  of  your  holy  elevation  of  soul?  Why  do  you 
talk  yourself  out  of  it?  Why  do  you — why  do  you — 
why  do  you " 

Bishop  (much  amused):  Well,  well!  You  are  a 
doctor  of  divinity,  then?  Tell  me,  doctor,  to  what 
profit  should  the  minister  do  that  which  mankind  at 
large  are  not  expected  to  do?" 

Grinder  (greatly  excited)  :  "  What  did  it  profit  St. 


iio  Not  Welcome 

Francis?  It  gave  him  his  power  over  men,  to  bend 
their  wills.  You  say  it  is  so, — his  power  is  from  his 
spirituality, — his  spirituality  is  proved  by  sacrifice. 
Listen  to  me!  We  shall  now  speak  of  Bishop  Wel- 
come. He,  too,  had  the  spirituality,  the  holy  elevation 
of  soul.  To  what  end?  A  vast  influence  for  good 
flowed  out  from  him, — all  who  came  near  him  were 
made  better  by  it.  Did  he  preach?  Did  he  scold? 
No,  rather  by  the  spirit  did  he  lay  hold  of  them,  and 
lift  them  up  in  spite  of  themselves.  He  put  love  in 
their  hearts,  out  of  his  own  heart, — good  will, — God's 
will, — I  tell  you  God's  will  and  good  will  are  one. 
No  matter  how  good  will  gets  in  a  man's  heart,  it  is 
God's  will.  Especially  Jean  Valjean,  who  was  a  fright- 
ful sinner  ,  yet  was  saved.  I  will  read  of  him.  "  (He 
draws  another  volume  from  his  pocket). 

Bishop  (shortly)  :  "What  book  have  you  there?" 

Grinder :  "  It  is  Les  Miserdbles,  the  greatest  book  in 
the  world,  the  word  of  God  from  the  mouth  of  his 
prophet,  greater  than  the  Bible,  for  without  it  I  should 
never  have  known  what  the  Bible  meant." 

Bishop  (shocked)  :  "  It  is  by  the  wicked  Frenchman, 
Hugo?" 

Grinder :  "  Hugo  is  his  name." 

Bishop :  "  I  cannot  hear  you  read  from  that  book. 
All  the  books  of  that  wicked  man  are  proscribed. 
The  faithful  are  forbidden  to  read  them,  or  hear 
them  read.  They  are  impious  and  subversive  of 
morals,  and  Holy  Mother  Church  has  put  them  on  the 
Index." 

Grinder:  "The  Index?" 

Bishop  (severely)  :  "  I  have  given  you  too  much  of 
my  time, — a  great  deal  more  than  I  should  have  given 


A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness     1 1 1 

had  I  known  what  you  came  for."  (rises)  "I  bid 
you  good-day."  (leads  the  way  to  the  door) 

Grinder  (following  reluctantly):  "My  father's 
business " 

Bishop :  "  No  more !  I  must  decline  to  let  you 
waste  another  moment  of  the  time  which  belongs  to 
those  who  need  my  services." 

That  was  the  colloquy. 

Nora  was  peeping  out  from  the  back  door,  when 
Shack  took  his  departure.  Her  resentment  was  wholly 
evaporated  and  what  was  more,  she  was  about  dying 
of  curiosity.  She  smiled  at  him,  and  even  beckoned 
with  her  hand,  and  he  was  looking  directly  at  her; 
but  he  did  not  heed  her.  For  a  moment  he  stood, 
with  bared  head,  undecided,  staring  up  at  the  cold, 
still  windows;  and  then  he  turned  abruptly  and  hur- 
ried off,  with  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  his  tattered 
books  in  the  other. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FISHERS  OF  MEN 

IF  sheep  looked  up  and  were  not  fed,  it  was  from 
no  lack  of  those  who  called  themselves  shepherds. 
There  were  shepherds  and  shepherds,  until  they  fairly 
jostled  one  another,  though  the  pastures  were  broad. 

For  some  of  these  Shack  came  to  have  a  fellow 
feeling. 

He  began  with  driving  his  wheel  seven  days  in  the 
week,  knowing  no  reason  why  he  should  not.  But 
very  soon  he  discovered  that  he  was  eyed  askance 
when  he  tinkled  his  bells  of  a  Sunday  and  that  patron- 
age was  very  scantly  forthcoming  on  that  day.  And 
at  length  he  was  warned  by  the  police  that  it  was 
against  the  law  to  carry  on  a  gainful  pursuit  on  the 
Sabbath.  So  he  labored  six  days  and  did  all  his 
work,  resting  on  the  seventh,  if  mere  emptiness  of 
occupation  could  be  called  rest. 

Once,  strolling  aimlessly  about,  he  happened  near 
a  church  when  the  people  were  going  in.  They  were 
a  throng,  it  was  easy  to  drift  along  with  them,  and 
almost  before  he  knew  it  he  was  going  in,  too.  The 
experience  proved  pleasant  enough.  There  was  an 
abundance  of  color  in  the  place,  what  with  all  the 
bright  gowns  of  the  women, — not  so  bright  as  the 
bishop's,  but  very  engaging  still,  to  the  savage  taste, 
— and  the  walls  and  windows  painted  and  gilded.  The 

112 


Fishers  of  Men  113 

music,  also,  floated  down  from  a  high  loft  in  an  en- 
trancing manner,  and  there  was  no  escaping  the  thrill 
when  the  deep  notes  of  the  organ  shook  the  air  like 
thunder.  The  sermon, — well,  Shack  slept  during  much 
of  it,  and  even  when  he  wasn't  sleeping,  he  dreamed ; 
the  sermon  was  likewise  a  joy,  in  its  own  way.  The 
pastor  came  down  to  the  door  after  the  service,  and 
shook  hands  with  everybody,  not  by  any  means  over- 
looking the  stranger.  Shack  was  considerably  at- 
tracted and  went  back  to  that  church  several  times. 

But  the  shepherds  whom  he  felt  drawn  to  most  were 
of  another  kind, — Melchisedecs  rather  than  Levites, 
ministers  who  ministered  in  the  by-ways  and  hedges, 
and  had  no  churches.  They  were  especially  to  be 
found  down  in  the  dingy  district  where  cheap  lodging- 
houses  abounded.  There  they  harangued  from  the 
gutter  as  often  as  a  knot  of  listeners  would  gather  on 
the  curb,  and  that  was  often,  for  Sunday  was  a  dull 
day  in  those  regions, — so  dull,  what  with  the  saloons 
all  being  shut,  that  even  preaching,  and  poor  preach- 
ing at  that,  was  a  consolation.  If  Shack  didn't  care 
much  for  the  haranguing,  there  v/as  still  their  devo- 
tion to  make  him  like  them.  Certainly  they  were  de- 
voted. They  worked  all  the  week  at  some  secular 
employment,  usually  of  a  toilsome  character  and  not 
very  remunerative,  yet  gave  their  day  of  rest  freely 
and  without  price  to  the  Master's  service,  as  they  were 
pleased  to  term  it, — and  a  laborious  service  they  made 
of  it,  too. 

Among  them  was  a  certain  carpenter  with  whom 
Shack  struck  up  a  friendship, — was  not  Jesus  himself 
a  carpenter?  Neither  of  them  knew  the  other's  name, 
— never  thought  to  ask  it,  though  they  were  often  to- 
gether; and  yet  they  were  very  good  friends,  of  a 
kind.  Their  acquaintance  began  with  the  carpenter 


114  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

trying  to  save  Shack's  soul.  He  saw  the  boy  in  his 
little  congregation  of  listeners,  one  Sunday  evening, 
and  when  he  had  finished  his  discourse,  he  went  to 
him,  and  laid  his  arm  lovingly  about  his  shoulders. 

"  Friend,"  said  he,  "  something  in  your  face  tells 
me  you  wish  to  be  born  again." 

No,  that  was  a  mistake.  Shack  had  no  notion  of 
being  born  again, — once  was  amply  enough  for  him. 

"  Except  a  man  be  born  again,  he  cannot  see  the 
kingdom  of  God,"  insisted  the  carpenter.  "  Except 
a  man  be  born  of  the  water,  and  of  the  spirit,  he  can- 
not enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God." 

But  his  seed  fell  on  stony  places, — he  was  going 
on  to  enlarge  upon  his  doctrine  of  regeneration  when 
Shack  broke  in,  impatiently. 

"  What  makes  you  talk  so  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  preach  the  gospel,"  replied  the  carpenter.  "  I 
am  commanded  to  go  forth  and  preach." 

"  Who  commands  you  ?  " 

"  The  Master,  my  Lord  and  my  Redeemer,  Jesus 
the  Christ!" 

"  No,  he  commands  whoever  would  be  his  disciple 
to  take  up  his  cross  daily." 

"  I  try  to  do  that,  too,  but  it  is  not  enough. 
The " 

"  It  is  enough,  if  you  do  enough  of  it.  Bishop 
Welcome " 

But  now  it  was  Shack's  seed  which  fell  on  stony 
places, — he  was  going  on,  in  a  great  glow,  when  the 
carpenter  took  his  turn  at  breaking  in. 

"  While  ye  have  light,  believe  in  the  light ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  He  that  entereth  not  by  the  door  into  the 
sheepfold,  but  climbeth  up  some  other  way,  the  same 
is  a  thief  and  a  robber." 

And  no  nearer  together  could  they  come,  though 


Fishers  of  Men  115 

the  carpenter  was  forever  trying  to  show  Shack,  and 
Shack  was  forever  trying  to  show  the  carpenter.  Of- 
ten they  would  afford  the  bystanders  considerable 
amusement,  by  their  zeal,  with  neither  in  the  least 
heeding  the  other. 

Not  much  like  the  gentle  carpenter  was  an  evange- 
list who  boasted  himself  a  reformed  tough,  a  coarse, 
heavy  fellow,  who  in  much  still  acted  his  old  part, 
however  his  heart  might  have  changed.  He  had  thick 
black  brows,  and  a  mustache  which  fell  over  his  chin, 
and  a  fierce  eye  and  a  scar  across  his  cheek  to  testify 
to  a  stab  he  had  got  in  a  drunken  row,  sometime.  In 
one  way  or  another  he  had  provided  himself  with  a 
handsome  wagon,  carrying  an  organ  and  a  choir  of 
singers,  so  that  wherever  he  set  up  to  preach  he  had 
the  churchly  essentials.  He  was  vulgar  and  boister- 
ous. To  draw  himself  a  crowd  he  would  resort  to 
showman's  tricks,  among  them  that  of  pounding  on 
an  enormous  gong  till  people  ran  up  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  Having  got  his  crowd,  by  hook  or  by 
crook,  he  would  tell  stories,  not  over  nice  but  with 
some  sort  of  a  moral,  and  display  coarse  crayon  pict- 
ures, such  as  he  had  a  knack  for  drawing, — there  was 
a  moral  to  them,  also.  But  whatever  the  failings  of 
the  evangelist,  his  singers  were  very  delightful  indeed. 
There  were  four  voices,  and  they  blended  like  currents 
of  sweet  water.  It  was  when  a  certain  two  of  them 
sang  that  the  music  was  loveliest,  however.  Noth- 
ing could  be  lovelier,  to  Shack's  notion,  than  when 
they  sang  a  song  which  began  with  the  words,  "  Pass 
me  not,  O  gentle  Saviour !  " 

There  was  an  appeal  in  that.  The  first  time  he 
heard  them  sing  it  he  chanced  to  be  standing  very  near 
the  wagon,  within  arm's  reach,  in  fact.  He  was  trans- 
ported, and  when  he  came  to  a  consciousness  of  him- 


1 1 6  A  Voice   Crying  in  the   Wilderness 

self,  he  was  clinging  to  the  wheel  with  both  hands, 
something  as  the  sinner  in  the  allegory  clings  to  the 
Rock  of  Ages,  with  his  face  upturned  and  wet.  The 
evangelist  saw  him,  and  reached  down  to  take  hold 
of  him,  but  Shack  shrank  away  and  fled  into  the 
crowd. 

Different  again  was  the  Salvation  Army.  Shack 
liked  them  about  the  best  of  all,  perhaps  by  reason  of 
their  singing,  which  he  was  free  and  welcome  to  join 
in.  They  had  their  semblance  of  a  band,  made  up  of 
nondescript  instruments,  not  omitting  the  hideous 
drum  pounded  on  by  a  soldier  ignorant  of  time  and 
tune.  But  there  was  a  soldier  playing  the  big  horn 
who  knew  how, — he  poured  a  rich  sustaining  bass 
into  the  chorus,  and  when  there  were  many  voices  the 
effect  was  altogether  fine.  It  was  great  fun,  singing 
with  the  Salvation  Army,  and  Shack  would  stay  by 
them  night  after  night,  till  they  marched  back  to  their 
barracks.  Of  course  they  discovered  him.  The  ad- 
jutant in  command,  alert  for  converts,  spied  his 
flushed  and  radiant  face  in  the  circle  and  went  to  him 
and  besought  him  to  come  forward  and  testify.  But 
Shack  had  nothing  to  testify  to.  Another  time  the 
adjutant  requested  all  to  raise  their  hands  who  be- 
lieved themselves  washed  clean  in  the  blood  of  Jesus. 

"  Up  with  your  hand,  friend !  "  he  called  out,  to 
Shack.  "  Don't  be  ashamed  of  your  colors." 

Shack  would  not,  however.  "  Nobody  was  ever 
washed  clean  in  blood !  "  he  made  answer,  and  shud- 
dered, and  there  was  no  more  radiance  in  his  face  for 
a  while. 

And  finally  there  were  the  revivals.  These  revivals 
were  just  then  making  a  great  stir;  they  were  held  in 
a  vast  barnlike  rink,  where  as  many  as  five  thousand 
persons  might  sit  and  stand,  and  the  place  was  al- 


Fishers  of  Men  1 1 7 

most  always  filled.  No  doubt  some  went  out  of  curi- 
osity, and  some  for  the  comfort  of  their  bodies,  the 
weather  being  cold,  the  times  hard,  and  fuel  costly; 
but  the  majority,  after  all,  seemed  to  be  concerned  for 
the  good  of  their  souls,  more  or  less  seriously.  There 
were  two  revivalists, — a  preacher  and  a  singer.  The 
singer  possessed  a  real  gift  for  music  and  his  songs 
\vere  beautiful.  They  had  a  chorus  of  trained  voices 
besides,  and  usually  the  congregation  was  asked  to 
join.  It  was  hard  to  keep  so  many  thousands  together, 
however,  and  the  congregational  singing  was  not  a 
great  success,  except  now  and  then,  when,  as  by  some 
mysterious  inspiration,  the  crowd  found  itself  and 
raised  up  its  voices  in  harmony  truly  sublime.  Once 
they  sang,  "  What  a  Friend  We  Have  in  Jesus ! "  in 
such  perfect  unison,  and  with  such  a  volume  of  sound, 
that  Shack  wished  they  might  never  stop. 

The  preaching,  on  the  other  hand,  was  very  dis- 
agreeable. The  preacher  was  bitter  and  vindictive. 
He  troubled  Shack  much,  and  more  and  more. 

"  God  says  there's  a  hell  for  every  Christless  soul," 
this  was  a  sentiment  which  the  man  never  tired  of 
repeating,  with  a  hateful,  gnashing  utterance.  "  If 
He  didn't  mean  what  He  said,  why  didn't  He  say 
what  He  meant  ?  " 

Shack  winced  as  if  a  lash  had  been  laid  over  his 
back.  And  he  felt  a  resentment. 

Once  the  preacher  spoke  in  this  wise :  "  A  few  years 
before  Robert  G.  Ingersoll  went  to  hell —  What 
makes  you  look  that  way?  That's  where  he  went, 
according  to  God's  word." 

Shack  had  never  heard  of  Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  but 
now  his  heart  went  out  to  him.  He  was  strongly 
minded  to  stand  up  for  him.  And  his  resentment 
rose. 


1 1 8   A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

The  revivalist  was  full  of  accusations, — here  is 
another :  "  One  of  the  grandest  pictures  on  earth  is  a 
whole  family  on  the  way  to  heaven,  the  most  horrible 
picture  on  earth  is  a  whole  family  on  the  way  to  hell." 

This  word  hell  troubled  Shack  especially.  To  him 
it  sounded  much  worse  in  the  mouth  of  the  minister  of 
God's  grace  than  ever  it  had  sounded  in  the  mouth  of 
the  profanest  lumberjack, — there  was  such  a  hiss  about 
it,  such  a  suggestion  of  ugliness. 

But  decidedly  the  most  troublesome  part  was  a 
story  which  the  preacher  told  concerning  a  young  girl. 

"  There  was  once  a  young  girl,"  he  said,  "  who  went 
to  the  theater  when  she  should  have  gone  to  church. 
She  belonged  to  a  Christian  family,  too, — she  had  the 
light,  and  sinned  against  it.  She  knew  she  ought  to 
go  to  church,  but  she  chose  to  go  to  the  theater.  She 
was  warned.  Kind  friends  warned  her  that  her  place 
was  at  church,  and  that  if  she  went  to  the  wicked 
theater  instead,  she  put  her  soul  in  peril.  She  was 
stiffnecked,  and  went  to  the  theater. 

"  What  happened  ? 

"  Oh,  my  friends,  what  happened  ? 

"  The  very  next  day  she  fell  sick. 

"  And  the  day  after  that  she  died. 

"  And  her  soul  is  in  hell.  Do  you  doubt  it  ?  Then 
you  call  God  a  liar !  " 

It  was  too  much, — Shack's  soul  surged  to  his  lips 
in  protest.  The  sense  of  wrong  rushed  on  him  over- 
whelmingly, and  every  fiber  of  him  was  for  grappling 
with  it  there  and  then.  But  straightway  there  came, 
too,  a  sick  quaking,  a  feeling  of  impotence,  and  the 
upshot  was  an  impulse  to  flee  the  place,  a  wish  to  get 
away  from  the  crowd.  His  soul  halted  at  his  lips 
and  shrank  back, — he  had  no  words  in  which  to  utter 
its  protest.  If  he  were  to  open  his  mouth  nothing 


Fishers  of  Men  119 

would  come  out  but  a  snarl,  the  cry  of  an  offended 
animal, — he  was  sufficiently  conscious  of  that,  and  so 
he  fled. 

In  his  ears  was  the  sound  of  the  exhorter's  voice, 
harsh  and  pitiless,  warning  the  people  to  come  for- 
ward and  confess  before  it  was  everlastingly  too  late. 
And  the  people  were  flocking  up  in  answer  to  the  call, 
with  terror  in  all  their  faces.  Shack  met  them,  pushing 
and  jostling,  and  they  nearly  swept  him  off  his  feet, 
they  were  so  eager.  But  he  was  eager,  too.  There 
was  a  terror  driving  him, — in  something  very  like  a 
panic  he  fought  his  way  out. 

And  though  that  was  gone  at  once  he  cleared  the 
crowd,  there  was  still  the  impulse  to  get  away,  to 
escape  the  troublesome  presence,  to  go  where  he  could 
no  more  hear  the  pitiless  warning  voice  or  see  the 
frightened  faces.  Instinctively  he  fell  into  his  swift, 
easy  Indian  run,  and  ran  and  ran,  until  the  haunts 
of  men  were  behind  him,  and  he  was  in  the  open 
spaces,  with  the  whole  expanse  of  the  glittering  sky 
above  and  about  him, — the  sky  he  had  always  known, 
his  lifelong  friend  and  companion,  his  unfailing  guide 
and  comfort.  He  slackened  his  pace  when  he  saw 
himself  among  his  familiars,  the  prairie  stretches  where 
the  snow  was  trackless, — he  looked  up  into  the  face 
of  the  sky;  and  strength  came  to  him,  a  new  strength 
of  the  soul.  Why  was  he  fleeing?  What  fled  he 
from?  In  his  strength  he  commanded  the  tumult  of 
his  emotions,  to  sort  them  out,  and  find  where  he 
stood. 

Forthwith  his  conscience  smote  him.  He  had  been 
a  coward.  What  spirit  but  cowardice  had  possessed 
him,  that  he  should  desert  those  people  when  they 
were  in  such  need?  Those  sheep  who  looked 
pathetically  up  and  were  fed  with  husks, — nay,  worse 


I2O  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

than  husks,  with  deadly  poison!  His  call  had  been 
to  help  them,  and  he  had  heard  it  not.  His  call  had 
been  to  raise  his  voice  to  rescue  them  from  that  wicked 
man,  and  he  had  remained  silent. 

Because  he  had  been  afraid! 

He  would  go  back,  then.  Possibly  it  was  not  too 
late  even  yet.  At  all  events  he  would  go  back. 

He  went,  quickly, — his  Indian  run  had  never 
carried  him  faster.  At  the  door  of  the  rink  he  met 
the  people  coming  out.  There  sat  upon  them  a  painful 
awe,  and  that  reproached  him.  A  good  many  of  them 
had  been  crying — some  were  crying  yet — and  that 
reproached  him  still  more. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  that  night,  but  another 
night  was  coming  and  he  highly  resolved  it  should  be 
a  night  of  reckoning.  Anger  flamed  hot  and  high  in 
him.  Once  more  he  sought  the  open  spaces,  and 
looked  into  the  face  of  the  sky,  and  grew  stronger  and 
stronger  until  he  was  a  giant,  with  courage  equal 
to  anything.  Nothing  should  daunt  him,  any  more. 
He  would  face  the  man  of  evil  and  destroy  him  He 
would  grapple  with  the  wrong  and  put  it  under  his 
feet.  He  would  strike  the  shackles  off  the  multitude, 
— he  would  send  them  away,  not  weeping  and  trem- 
bling miserably,  but  laughing  for  joy  in  their  freedom. 

And  so  he  wrapped  himself  in  his  panoply  of  high 
resolution, — all  that  night  he  was  about  it,  and  all 
the  next  day,  until  evening.  At  evening  he  repaired 
to  the  rink. 

But  though  there  was  an  immense  congregation, 
immensely  wrought  upon,  the  preacher  did  not  speak, 
— not  so  much  as  a  word  from  first  to  last  He  was 
present,  but  only  to  sit  stiffly  by,  while  numbers  of 
other  men,  in  white  ties  and  long  clerical  coats,  rose 
up  one  after  another  and  praised  him  for  a  Paul  come 
to  bring  the  unrighteous  to  repentance.  They  were 


Fishers  of  Men  1 21 

clergymen,  evidently, — no  doubt  the  ministers  of  the 
churches  under  whose  auspices  the  revivals  were  held. 
Anyway  they  vied  with  one  another  to  make  strong 
their  eulogy,  but  no  eulogy  proved  too  strong  for  the 
fancy  of  the  congregation.  Burst  upon  burst  of 
applause  swept  over  the  great  assemblage.  The  air 
was  stormy  with  cheers.  Hundreds  kept  shouting  that 
they  were  saved.  Many  wept.  It  would  be  hard  to 
imagine  a  crowd  more  deeply  moved. 

After  a  good  deal  of  this,  a  man  rose  up  who  was 
not  a  clergyman,  by  his  manner, — rather  a  plain  man 
of  business ;  and  presented  a  statement  of  what  it  had 
cost  to  conduct  the  meetings.  There  was  something 
for  the  hire  of  the  hall,  something  for  heating,  for 
lights,  for  printing,  for  a  long  list  of  sundries.  Alto- 
gether the  expense  had  been  quite  heavy. 

"  That  part,"  the  man  went  on  to  say,  "  has  been 
taken  care  of  by  private  subscription, — the  bills  have 
been  paid  and  need  give  us  no  further  thought.  But 
there  is  another  matter, — called  by  some  a  delicate 
matter,  I  fail  to  see  why, — but  at  all  events  a  matter 
not  to  be  dodged.  I  have  reference  to  the  compensa- 
tion due  this  wonderful  man  for  his  wonderful  work. 
Let  me  tell  you  that  he  has  asked  no  pay  whatever. 
We  expressly  requested  him,  when  we  opened 
negotiations,  to  set  a  price, — he  would  not.  We 
offered  him  a  guaranty, — he  wouldn't  have  it.  He 
wouldn't  let  us  pay  .his  board  even.  '  But,'  said  he, 
'  when  I  am  done,  if  the  people  are  sufficiently  pleased 
with  my  work  to  make  me  a  free-will  offering,  I  shall 
not  reject  it.  I  leave  it  for  them  to  fix  the  value  of  my 
services.  Under  God,  they  are  the  best  judge.' 
That's  the  man,  my  friends.  Can  we  afford  to  be 
small  with  him?"  (a  torrent  of  dissent  from  all 
sides)  "  I  agree  with  you,  perfectly.  Now,  we  are 


122  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

going  to  take  up  a  collection,  and  it  will  be  your  free- 
will offering.  We  sha'n't  count  it, — whatever  we  get 
will  be  poured  directly  into  his  lap  from  the  boxes.  It 
is  not  my  place  to  make  any  suggestion  as  to  what 
the  amount  should  be,  but  I  will  nevertheless  venture 
a  word.  This  man  has  brought  upwards  of  a  thou- 
sand vagrant  souls  to  Jesus,  and  if  the  service  isn't 
worth  a  dollar  a  soul,  it's  worth  nothing.  We  are  told 
that  it  costs  several  hundred  dollars  to  save  the 
average  heathen  soul,  and  the  harvest  is  worth  it, 
every  penny.  But  the  souls  of  our  nearer  brethren  are 
quite  as  precious,  and  in  even  greater  peril,  if  only 
because  we  who  have  the  light  and  are  primarily 
responsible  for  its  dissemination,  are  all  too  apt  to  over- 
look the  darkness  which  is  under  our  very  noses. 
These  meetings  have  been  highly  fruitful,  not  only 
in  the  greater  part  of  saving  souls,  but  in  the  scarcely 
lesser  part  of  showing  us  what  souls  there  were  to  be 
saved ;  and  I  am  sure  we  are  grateful  for  the  reminder, 
even  though  it  should  accuse  us  of  neglect.  For  my- 
self, I  exult  in  the  opportunity  to  make  some  return 
for  the  immeasurable  benefit  I  have  derived.  I  have 
purchased  in  my  time  a  great  deal  of  comfort  and 
satisfaction  with  money,  but  never  any  to  compare,  in 
cheapness  and  quality,  with  the  happiness  I  am  pur- 
chasing now, — with  this." 

He  drew  out  a  bill  as  he  finished,  and  flourished 
it  ostentatiously,  dropping  it  in  the  box, — it  was  a  bill 
with  a  yellow  back  and  by  that  no  trifle.  The  con- 
gregation caught  the  spirit  of  lavishness  as  the  tinder 
catches  fire,  and  could  scarcely  wait  till  the  boxes  came 
to  receive  the  offerings.  A  great  clinking  of  money 
ensued.  Bills  were  numerous,  but  coins  were  much 
more  so,  especially  silver  dollars,  big  and  heavy,  clash- 
ing one  against  another  till  the  rattle  and  clatter  were 


Fishers  of  Men  123 

something  to  hear.  Meanwhile  the  man  on  the  plat- 
form kept  up  a  running  fire  of  comment, — informal, 
even  jocose ;  and  the  people  laughed  more  and  more.  If 
there  was  an  occasional  outbreak  of  solemn  fervor  on 
the  part  of  some  overstrained  soul,  it  only  served 
to  provoke  fresh  laughter.  The  laughing  mood  was 
well-nigh  universal, — it  had  all  but  a  very  few. 

Shack  was  of  these  few. 

In  order  the  better  to  do  that  which  he  purposed 
doing,  he  had  taken  up  his  station  well  forward,  with- 
in a  step  or  two  of  the  front, — an  Indian,  in  fact, 
might  make  the  platform  at  a  bound.  There  he 
waited  till  the  services  began;  there  smothered  his 
disappointment  when  the  preacher  did  not  speak;  and 
there  felt  a  new  and  greater  anguish  than  any  yet.  It 
was  not  for  him  to  laugh.  The  man  airily  reckoned 
up  the  value  of  a  soul  saved  in  commercial  terms  and 
flourished  his  bill;  the  people  howled  their  approval; 
the  clergymen  beamed  radiantly  to  show  how  very 
pleased  they  were.  No,  there  was  nothing  for  Shack 
to  laugh  at. 

None  observed  him.  He  jumped  up,  but  pretty 
much  everybody  was  jumping  up  likewise.  A  woman 
from  behind  jostled  him  violently, — set  her  shoulder 
against  him  and  shoved  him  out  of  her  way ;  she  held 
a  gleaming  gold  piece  over  her  head  and  screamed 
that  the  Lord  was  her  shepherd — and  laughed.  Others 
screamed,  and  there  was  laughter  all  the  time,  and 
none  to  observe  Shack. 

But  now,  of  a  sudden,  above  the  uproar,  a  voice 
was  lifted  up,  piercing  and  shrill.  It  was  a  yell,  in 
fact,  mingling  agony  with  anger,  and  it  was  heard 
from  end  to  end  of  the  hall. 

The  voice  was  Shack's.     Those  nearest  him  dis- 


124  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

tinguished   these   words :      "  Make   not   my   Father's 
house  a  house  of  merchandise!  " 

That  was  the  only  utterance  his  protest  found.  The 
next  instant  he  fell  to  the  floor,  with  a  loud  crash 
among  the  chairs,  foaming,  and  beating  wildly  with 
his  arms  and  legs.  People  were  startled,  naturally, 
— the  incident  was  so  foreign  and  unexpected ;  but  not 
for  long.  The  tide  of  joyful  enthusiasm  ran  too  strong 
to  be  easily  interrupted  and  very  soon  it  was  in  full 
flood  once  more.  Some  men  picked  Shack  up  and 
carried  him  out  through  a  side  door  into  the  alley. 
He  was  quiet  by  that  time,  limp  and  senseless. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  SOCIETY  OF  JESUS 

AN  ambulance  clattered  into  the  alley,  with  a  boyish 
surgeon  who  summed  up  his  diagnosis  in  the  one 
word,  "Fit!" — nothing  serious.  They  bundled  the 
unconscious  Shack  off  to  the  hospital  and  put  him  to 
bed;  for  a  fit  no  more  was  necessary.  But  when  the 
night  passed  and  he  did  not  recover  his  senses,  they 
perceived  that  worse  ailed  him ;  and  when,  as  the  day 
advanced,  he  grew  restless  and  delirious,  they  talked 
of  brain  fever. 

In  point  of  fact  he  was  very  near  to  finishing  his 
earthly  course  there  and  then.  It  was  a  long,  hard 
battle  which  he  fought  with  death,  with  so  much  in 
favor  of  his  grim  foe.  He  was  not  neglected,  after 
those  first  few  hours, — the  doctors  and  nurses  did 
what  could  be  done,  and  though  it  was  only  a  narrow 
bed  in  the  public  ward  which  they  gave  him,  a  better 
would  have  availed  nothing;  it  wasn't  treatment  he 
needed,  but  vitality, — there  was  so  little  to  build  re- 
covery on.  He  sank  and  sank  until  he  was  des- 
perately low.  Day  and  night  he  was  out  of  his 
head  and  raving.  It  was  a  curious  mixture  he  talked 
in  his  wanderings, — nobody  had  ever  heard  anything 
like  it, — Indian  and  French  and  English  all  at  once; 
and  a  curious  past  it  revealed, — in  his  dreams  he 
hunted  with  his  tribe,  or  drove  oxen  for  the  loggers, 

125 


126  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

or  wrangled  with  an  imaginary  somebody  about  his 
father's  business.  The  hospital  people  conceived  an 
uncommon  interest  in  the  frail  boy, — not  only  the 
doctors  and  the  nurses,  but  other  patients  who  were 
near  by;  and  not  the  less  because  they  had  no  notion 
he  could  by  any  possibility  pull  through.  One  day 
he  was  seen  to  pluck  incessantly  at  the  coverlet,  and  an 
elderly  man  in  the  next  bed,  convalescent  of  a  fever 
himself,  solemnly  declared  it  a  sign  of  impending  death 
never  known  to  fail.  The  attendants  didn't  go  by 
symptoms  of  that  sort,  but  they  agreed  that  death 
impended, — if  the  fellow  got  well  it  would  be  the 
greatest  of  wonders.  But  no  less  a  wonder  came  to 
pass.  Shack  fought  his  way  through,  and  lived. 
After  many  days  he  opened  his  eyes  to  look  consciously 
about  him. 

And  it  happened  that  Father  Peter  was  just  at  that 
moment  administering  supreme  unction  to  a  patient 
across  the  aisle.  Who  was  Father  Peter?  A  jolly 
priest  who  made  the  hospital,  and  especially  the 
charity  wards  thereof,  an  especial  care.  The  name  of 
father  sat  upon  him  rather  strangely,  he  was  so  young, 
— less  than  a  year  ordained,  in  fact;  but  no  one 
grudged  him  any  title  whatsoever  that  should  smack 
of  respect  and  esteem,  for  in  the  few  months  of  his 
ministration  he  had  got  himself  mightily  well  liked. 
Catholics  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  brought  there 
saw  more  than  the  man  in  him,  but  the  man  in  him 
was  amply  enough  to  make  him  beloved  of  Protestants, 
scoffers  and  heathen.  None  had  ever  blessed  his 
goodness  more  than  an  Arabian  packpeddler  who  was 
laid  up  for  weeks  and  weeks  with  a  broken  leg.  He 
prayed  assiduously  to  the  Allah  whose  prophet  was 
Mahomet,  but  Father  Peter  sat  with  him,  and  told  him 
funny  stories  in  French,  with  a  wealth  of  gesture  and 


The  Society  of  Jesus  1 27 

a  perfection  of  mimicry  such  as  should  make  his  mean- 
ing clear  without  a  word  in  any  tongue;  and  never 
once  mentioned  religion.  When  the  Arabian  was  well, 
he  brought  the  priest  a  beautiful  rug  from  Bokhara, 
and  went  away  astonished  and  troubled  to  learn  that 
no  member  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  was  permitted  to 
have  anything  for  his  own, — not  even  the  clothes 
he  wore,  coarse  and  scanty  though  they  were. 

It  was  Father  Peter  whom  Shack  saw  first  with 
conscious  eyes.  He  was  aware,  rather  clearly,  con- 
sidering his  long  sleep,  what  was  going  forward  over 
there  across  the  aisle,  and  he  was  taken  with  an  impulse 
to  fall  on  his  knees.  Was  he  not  in  the  presence  of 
God?  'Anyway,  there  were  the  identical  motions. 
Yes,  and  the  words  as  well, — Corpus  Domini,  vitam 
eternam,  and  the  rest, — all  in  the  same  identical  sing- 
song. But  at  once  he  thought  of  falling  on  his  knees, 
he  made  the  important  discovery  that  he  was  already 
flat  on  his  back.  He  would  rise  to  the  kneeling 
posture,  then?  No,  he  could  not.  He  was  too  weak 
to  lift  his  hand,  even.  He  could  turn  his  head  a 
little,  and  that  was  all. 

He  could  speak,  though,  and  when  he  saw  the 
priest  going,  he  called  to  him,  and  made  him  hear. 
Father  Peter  came  straightway  over,  with  the  sunniest 
of  smiles  on  his  beaming,  rosy,  Irish  face,  and  in  the 
cheeriest  of  voices  asked  him  how  he  found  himself. 

"  Some  of  that ! "  wheezed  Shack,  feebly,  while 
his  eyes  fastened  themselves  on  the  leather  case  which 
hung  from  Father  Peter's  neck.  It  was  something  to 
eat, — why  shouldn't  he  ask  for  it  that  way? 

The  priest  spoke  in  a  whisper  to  the  doctor  who 
came  along  at  the  moment.  The  doctor  answered 
aloud  that  there  was  no  immediate  danger,  and  Father 
Peter  turned  back  to  Shack  with  a  laugh. 


128   A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

"  You're  going  to  get  well,  old  man,"  he  said. 

Shack  knew  he  was  being  put  off,  and  it  wasn't  to 
his  taste.  He  grew  peevish,  like  a  child  denied  some 
goody  his  heart  is  set  on, — his  lips  quivered  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  Father  Peter  had  seen 
sick  men  before, — he  knew  their  whims  and  fancies ; 
and  he  kept  up  such  a  flow  of  good  spirits  that  Shack 
was  carried  away  by  it  and  forgot  his  vexation  and  at 
length  was  in  tolerably  good  spirits  himself. 

The  priest  promised  to  come  and  see  him  next  day, 
and  the  promise  was  fulfilled;  not  only  that  day,  but 
every  day  during  the  rest  of  his  stay,  did  Father  Peter 
bring  his  gift  of  cheerfulness,  his  bit  of  banter,  his 
story,  his  laughter  best  of  all.  Shack  remembered 
the  communion,  and  asked  for  it  once  or  twice,  but 
still  he  was  put  off,  and  thereupon,  having  become 
stronger  and  less  childish,  he  understood  that  the 
mysterious  wafer  was  not  for  him.  Moreover,  as  the 
childish  mood  passed,  the  whim  went  with  it,  for  after 
all  it  was  only  a  whim.  What  was  a  mere  bit  of 
tasteless  bread  to  him,  anyway  ? 

They  became  famous  friends.  Dr.  Robert  was 
Shack's  dearest  friend,  of  course,  but  next  to  Dr. 
Robert  stood  Father  Peter.  They  were  as  different, 
too,  as  men  could  well  be,  these  friends;  Dr.  Robert 
silent  and  sober, — Father  Peter  talkative  and  gay ;  Dr. 
Robert  a  Frenchman  with  rather  little  of  the  French 
levity  and  effervescence, — Father  Peter  an  Irishman 
with  all  the  Irish  charm,  very  witty  though  not  too 
witty  to  be  kind.  Yet  they  were  alike  in  one  respect, 
— their  interest  in  Shack.  Dr.  Robert  himself  could 
not  have  taken  more  interest  in  the  waif,  for  waif  once 
more  he  was. 

Of  course  he  had  to  leave  the  hospital,  just  as  soon 
as  he  could  safely  be  turned  out, — his  narrow  bed  was 


The    Society  of  Jesus  129 

a  gift  of  philanthropy  and  in  brisk  demand.  What 
was  to  become  of  him  hereupon?  His  wheel  was 
gone.  His  best  recollection,  not  very  good,  was  that 
he  had  left  it  in  his  shed  while  he  went  to  beard  the 
revivalist,  but  if  he  was  right  in  that,  somebody  had 
found  it  and  appropriated  it.  Anyway  it  was  lost  to 
him  and  he  was  a  grinder  no  longer.  In  that 
emergency  Father  Peter  saw  that  he  was  provided  for. 
The  Jesuits  had  a  large  church,  the  largest  in  town, 
where  several  thousand  families  worshiped,  and  in 
connection  with  the  church  a  great  school ;  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  work  about  the  two  institutions,  and  some 
that  could  be  done  by  a  common  laborer  like  Shack, 
if  he  was  willing  to  labor,  as  the  fathers  themselves 
did,  for  a  bare  living.  And  Shack  was  very  willing. 
In  fact,  he  could  not  have  asked  for  a  place  more  to 
his  liking. 

After  that  they  two  became  more  famous  friends 
than  ever. 

The  surroundings  were  like  nothing  Shack  had  ever 
encountered  hitherto.  He  was  apart  from  the  world. 
Every  day  the  world  or  people  who  were  of  the  world, 
came  there  to  worship  or  to  study,  but  it  was  not  to 
bring  their  worldliness  with  them;  even  they  came 
under  the  spell  of  the  spirit  which  brooded  over  Sts. 
Peter  and  Paul's,  for  that  was  the  official  name  of  the 
establishment.  It  was  a  religious  retreat  after  a  partic- 
ular form  of  religion,  and  a  form  which  made  the  ut- 
most of  the  emotions.  Of  course  Shack  was  affected, 
and  deeply, — the  crudest  and  most  elemental  appeal 
would  not  be  lost  on  him,  so  long  as  it  was  directed 
to  the  feelings.  If  such  a  thing  as  conversion  were 
possible  with  a  soul  so  elusive  and  uncertain,  it  would 
be  by  just  such  influences. 

Father  Peter  never  talked  with  Shack  about  relig- 


130  A  Voice  Crying   in  the  Wilderness 

ious  matters  on  his  own  motion  and  he  had  the  air 
of  evading  the  subject  if  it  was  otherwise  brought 
up.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  for  the  emotional  founda- 
tion to  make  itself  very  broad  and  firm.  If  so  he 
waited  not  in  vain.  Shack  was  assailed  with  no  ar- 
guments, only  scantly  was  his  curiosity  indulged;  but 
all  the  while  he  was  gaining  a  new  religious  sense, 
more  definite  and  formal,  more  Catholic,  more  Jesuit. 

Mass  was  celebrated  in  the  chapel  every  morning, 
and  it  was  a  strict  regulation  that  faculty,  students 
and  common  help  should  all  attend,  unless  particularly 
dispensed.  Shack  was  not  dispensed,  nor  on  the  other 
hand  was  he  so  much  as  apprised  of  the  regulation; 
yet  he  never  once  missed  mass  during  all  his  connec- 
tion. 

You  have  observed  Catholics  entering  their 
churches,  how  they  bend  the  knee  before  the  altar, 
as  they  take  their  seats?  It  was  only  a  morning  or 
two  till  Shack  was  bending  the  knee  like  the  others. 
Nobody  told  him  to  do  that,  either. 

There  were  always  some  few  from  the  parish  with- 
out, at  this  daily  mass, — faithful  souls  who  delighted 
in  worship,  and  had  the  time  for  it ;  and  among  them, 
especially,  a  bowed  and  shrunken  old  woman,  dressed 
in  the  deepest  black,  who  knelt  at  the  altar  of  the 
Virgin  and  counted  her  beads.  She  would  throw  back 
her  veil  as  she  prayed,  and  her  face,  with  the  light 
of  eternity  on  it,  was  sweet  and  peaceful.  Shack  did 
not  know  the  prayers  of  the  Rosary,  but  somehow 
he  became  possessed  of  a  string  of  beads  and  every 
day  he  knelt  before  the  image  of  Mary  to  fumble  them 
over. 

Daily  communicants  were  rare.  In  all  that  vast 
parish  of  ten  thousands  souls,  you  could  count  the 
daily  communicants  on  the  fingers  of  your  two 


The  Society  of  Jesus  131 

hands, — that  is,  among  the  laity.  The  sweet  old 
woman  was  one  of  them, — as  often  as  the  bell  on  the 
altar  tinkled  to  warn  the  people  of  the  elevation  of  the 
host,  she  would  struggle  up  from  her  knees  and  go 
tottering  unsteadily  forward  to  receive  the  body  of  her 
Lord.  And  whoever  officiated  in  the  mass,  there  was 
a  tenderness  in  his  manner  when  he  came  to  that 
figure  huddled  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  and  a  softness  in 
his  muttered  Corpus  Domini;  and  then  the  old  woman 
would  come  tottering  back,  with  her  shriveled  hands 
clasped  together  in  the  attitude  of  adoration,  and  her 
countenance  eloquent  of  the  peace  that  passeth  all 
understanding.  Shack  saw  it  all,  looked  into  that 
face, — and  soon  he,  too,  was  a  daily  communicant. 

Not  without  difficulties,  however.  He  would  bungle 
his  confession.  Father  Peter  found  it  a  desperately 
hard  thing  to  make  Shack  understand  about  con- 
fession. He  was  not  unwilling  to  accuse  himself,  How- 
ever,— that  wasn't  the  trouble  at  all;  rather  was  he 
too  willing.  The  priest  taught  him  the  names  of  the 
seven  deadly  sins — pride  and  covetousness,  lust  and 
anger,  gluttony  and  envy  and  sloth,  and  was  amazed, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  penitent's  first  confession,  to 
hear  him  own  up,  in  the  most  sweeping  fashion  to 
all  of  them.  Nothing  was  more  certain  than  that  he 
was  innocent  as  a  babe  under  at  least  four  of  the 
heads,  and  under  the  others  quite  inoffensive,  as  men 
go;  yet  he  would  have  himself  thought  deeply  guilty 
of  all.  And  no  wickedest  culprit  ever  showed  him- 
self more  relieved  upon  being  absolved;  he  made  his 
communion,  he  told  his  beads  before  the  Virgin,  and 
came  away  with  his  head  in  the  clouds.  Sin  was  the 
prior  fact  to  his  elation, — why  should  he  not  go  in  for 
a  lot  of  it  ?  In  some  such  way,  perhaps,  he  reasoned, 
if  he  reasoned  at  all. 


132  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

The  church  of  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul  had  been  re- 
building during  several  years,  on  a  scale  of  great  mag- 
nificence; and  now  it  was  finished,  and  about  to  be 
dedicated  with  all  possible  pomp  and  ceremony.  There 
were  plenty  of  priests,  between  the  church  and  the 
school, — as  many  deacons  and  acolytes  as  could  be 
used.  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul  was  famous  for  its  cere- 
monies, anyway;  nowhere,  not  even  in  Rome  itself 
with  all  its  multitude  of  priests,  were  the  solemn  high 
festivals  celebrated  in  better  form.  The  Tenebrae 
of  Holy  Thursday,  for  instance,  were  spoken  of  as 
one  of  the  shows  of  the  city, — every  year  throngs  of 
Protestants  and  unbelievers  came  out  for  to  see;  and 
any  Catholic  will  tell  you  that  if  a  church  does  justice 
to  the  Tenebrae,  the  rest  is  comparatively  easy. 

The  Society  of  Jesus  having  built  the  edifice,  it  was 
fittingly  to  be  dedicated  on  the  feastday  of  the  Holy 
Name,  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  January.  It 
turned  out  a  bitter  cold  day,  such  that  the  rich  came  in 
their  furs  and  the  poor  with  all  their  rags  about  them, 
— but  everybody  came,  and  the  vast  temple  was  filled 
to  overflowing.  The  pews  were  all  taken  half  an  hour 
before  the  services  began,  and  though  chairs  were  set 
in  the  aisles,  there  were  still  people  standing  wherever 
an  open  space  presented  itself.  It  meant  something 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  such  a  crowd,  provided  you  had 
feelings  like  Shack's.  When  the  bell  tinkled  for  the 
beginning  of  the  canon,  and  all  that  immense  throng 
knelt  down,  with  a  rustling  of  garments,  Shack 
reeled  in  his  rapture  and  would  have  cast  himself 
prostrate  on  his  face,  only  that  there  wasn't  room. 

And  the  altar,  what  words  can  make  you  see  it  as 
he  saw  it? 

There  were  a  thousand  candles  burning, — not 
strictly  candles,  you  understand,  but  jets  of  gas  kindled 


The  Society  of  Jesus  133 

all  at  once  by  an  electric  spark, — it  would  take  the  al- 
tar-boys an  endless  time  to  light  so  many  real  candles. 
But  even  these  were  not  all  the  light.  Overhead,  in 
the  ceiling  of  the  sanctuary,  there  was  some  sort  of  a 
contrivance,  similar  in  its  effects  to  the  footlights  of 
a  theater,  by  means  of  which  a  very  especial  radiance 
was  cast  down  on  the  noble  figure  of  the  Saviour,  and 
the  lesser  figures  round  about  it.  Some  might  say 
Jesus  looked  but  strangely,  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
rich  splendor,  but  Shack  wasn't  so  struck.  On  the 
contrary,  the  splendor  thrilled  him  with  new  convic- 
tion,— it  was  the  character  and  stamp  of  divinity  in  his 
eyes.  As  never  yet  the  Real  Presence  was  indeed 
real,  to  him.  To  make  a  wafer  seem  God,  that  was  a 
mighty  hard  thing,  perhaps  not  truly  achieved,  if  the 
exact  fact  is  to  be  set  down;  but  this  glorious  image, 
with  the  light  streaming  down  upon  it,  was  not  it 
very  convincing?  Yet  there  was  even  more  and 
better, — the  Holy  Name  itself.  A  little  forward  of 
the  main  altar,  and  directly  over  the  communion  rail, 
it  burst  forth,  in  letters  of  living  fire,  hung  there  you 
knew  not  how  unless  by  divine  interposition, — the 
name  at  which  every  knee  in  heaven  and  earth  shall 
bow, — the  sacred  name  of  Jesus. 

Jesus ! 

When  Shack  looked  up  and  beheld  the  Holy  Name, 
his  heart  was  near  bursting.  Its  effulgence  stunned 
his  eyes  and  held  them  fascinated,  though  he  was  not 
without  a  vague  feeling  that  he  ought  to  bow  his  head; 
and  there  was  a  warmth,  if  he  was  not  mistaken,  de- 
scending upon  his  upturned  face.  Who  could  doubt  of 
the  Real  Presence,  now?  Not  Shack,  at  all  events; 
Jesus  was  there  looking  down  with  unspeakable  sweet- 
ness and  benignity,  pouring  out  his  love  till  you  felt 
the  warmth  of  it  on  your  face.  And  who  should  omit 


134  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

to  adore  Him?  Not  Shack, — he  humbled  himself  as 
low  as  he  possibly  could,  and  longed  for  more  room 
that  he  might  throw  himself  prostrate  in  the  dust. 

And  the  mass, — well,  certainly,  mass  had  never  so 
taken  hold  of  him  and  that  was  saying  a  good  deal, 
because  he  was  always  strongly  affected  by  the  cere- 
mony; even  the  low  mass,  of  a  dark  winter  morning, 
with  frost  in  the  church  and  no  light  but  the  feeble 
flicker  over  the  altar,  took  hold  of  him, — figured  for 
him,  if  nothing  so  definite  as  the  tragedy  of  Calvary, 
at  least  something  very  awful  and  mysterious.  But 
here  was  light  and  warmth  till  darkness  and  cold 
seemed  forever  banished  from  the  earth.  The  space 
within  the  sanctuary  swarmed  with  vested  priests  and 
boys  swinging  censers, — a  flood  of  color  to  capture 
the  sight,  a  flood  of  perfume, — no,  not  a  flood  either ; 
the  incense  floated  back  too  delicately  for  that.  But 
whether  or  no,  it  lifted  him  up.  And  more  than  all 
was  the  music,  sweeping  down  from  the  loft  behind 
him, — the  organ,  with  its  throbbing  bass,  the  quiver- 
ing strings,  the  trumpets  and  flutes,  and  the  voices  of 
men  and  women.  The  melancholy  Kyrie  swelled  into 
the  triumphant  Gloria,  and  Shack  was  lifted  up,  and 
borne  away.  Heavenward?  Everything  was  bear- 
ing him  heavenward. 

No,  not  quite  everything. 

Among  the  dignitaries  on  the  altar  there  was  one 
singled  out  by  the  deference  paid  him.  There  was 
a  gorgeous  throne  set  out  for  him,  and  the  priests 
fetched  gorgeous  garments  and,  making  servants  of 
themselves  vested  him  in  these.  Shack  saw  him  but 
dimly,  at  first, — only  the  profile  of  his  face;  and 
thought  no  more  about  him  than  that  he  was  some 
supremely  fortunate  man  chosen  to  serve  the  Most 
High  in  an  especial  capacity,  until  he  rose  from  his 


The  Society  of  Jesus  135 

throne  and  came  forward,  in  all  his  flaming  finery, 
to  preach.  Thereupon  it  appeared  that  he  was  none 
other  than  the  bishop, — Nora's  bishop.  Shack's  rap- 
ture was  undeniably  affected,  undeniably  damped;  and 
yet,  after  all,  what  did  it  greatly  matter?  He  could 
shut  his  ears  to  the  sermon,  since  it  was  for  him  but 
a  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal,  and  raise  his 
eyes  to  the  Holy  Name,  and  the  noble  image  of  the 
Saviour,  and  believe,  for  all  the  bishop,  that  Jesus  was 
there  indeed. 

Shack  was  by  all  tokens  a  Catholic,  but  he  couldn't 
stop  there;  the  time  was  not  long  coming  when  he 
would  be,  moreover,  a  Jesuit.  He  had  not  forgotten 
his  father's  business, — the  thought  of  it  had  come  back 
with  his  senses;  and  by  it  he  was  only  the  more 
assured  of  his  call  to  be  a  priest  of  the  Society  of  Jesus. 
Did  not  these  Jesuits  all  about  him  take  up  their  cross 
daily,  and  follow  Jesus  as  He  bade  them  ?  At  any  rate 
they  seemed  to  Shack  so  to  do, — he  saw  nothing  of 
them  which  did  not  make  them  out  devoted,  given  up 
to  sacrifice,  their  garb,  their  fare,  their  duties,  and 
chiefly  their  cheerful  readiness, — what  were  these  but 
so  many  proofs  of  consecration? 

Cheerfully  ready  they  certainly  were,  no  matter 
what  the  exaction, — that  was  their  character  revealed 
in  every  relation.  One  day  the  president  of  the  school, 
a  man  whose  tireless  activity  had  made  him  a  familiar 
figure,  was  missing,  and  in  his  place  and  about  his 
duties  another  priest,  who  was  a  complete  stranger. 
Ordinarily  Shack  was  little  given  to  curiosity,  but  he 
was  prompted  to  ask  about  the  president,  what  had 
become  of  him. 

"  He  has  been  called  away,"  Father  Peter  answered 
him.  For  good  ?  It  might  be, — only  the  general  of  the 
Society  knew  as  to  that.  And  who  was  this  general? 


136   A  Voice   Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

One  who  might  say  to  any  Jesuit,  Go !    and  he  went. 

Shack  was  greatly  interested.  "  The  president — 
did  he  say  anything — say  why  he  was  called  away  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  know.  His  orders  came  by  the  hand  of 
the  reverend  father  who  was  to  take  his  place, — that 
was  his  first  intimation.  In  less  than  an  hour  he  was 
on  his  way  to  St.  Louis." 

"Did  he  wish  to  go?" 

Father  Peter  smiled.  "A  Jesuit  may  have  no 
wish,"  he  said. 

"  But  the  friends — the  students — they  loved  him  so. 
He  is  sorry  to  leave  them?" 

"  A  Jesuit  is  glad  to  obey." 

It  was  there  and  then  that  Shack  made  his  avowal. 
"  I  will  be  a  Jesuit ! "  he  exclaimed,  quivering  with 
earnestness 

Father  Peter  was  not  visibly  rejoiced, — his  out- 
ward air  was  rather  that  of  regret,  as  for  an  ambition 
which  looked  too  high  and  was  foredoomed  to  dis- 
appointment. 

"  The  Society  of  Jesus  draws  its  recruits  from  the 
flower  of  the  seminaries,"  was  his  quiet  rejoinder, 
and  the  implication  wasn't  very  flattering. 

"  I  am  ready  to  go  to  the  seminaries ! "  protested 
Shack,  stoutly. 

"  Far  from  it,"  Father  Peter  was  frank,  though 
gentle,  "  so  far  that  only  years  and  years  of  hard 
labor  will  make  you  ready,  if  indeed  you  have  it  in 
you  to  be  made  ready  at  all." 

Then  he  went  on  briefly  to  describe  not  only  the 
grind  of  study  by  which  a  candidate  became  a  novice, 
but  the  toilsome  course  which  brought  the  patient 
novice  successively  through  the  degrees  of  formed 
temporal  coadjutor,  approved  scholastic,  formed  spirit- 
ual coadjutor,  the  professed  of  three  vows,  the  pro- 


The  Society  of  Jesus  137 

fessed  of  four  vows.  It  was  a  formidable  outlook,  as 
the  priest  made  it  appear. 

Could  anything  be  better  calculated  to  fire  Shack's 
zeal?  Probably  not. 

"  I  am  ready !  "  he  repeated,  glowing-.  If  he  wasn't 
ready  for  the  seminary,  he  would  begin  with  some 
earlier  step,  but  begin  he  must. 

Father  Peter  had  still  other  obstacles  to  point  out, 
however, — still  more  cold  water  to  throw,  by  which 
to  make  this  singular  fire  of  ardor  to  flame  higher. 
He  spoke  of  the  final  vows,  what  hardship  they  im- 
posed, what  sacrifice  they  exacted. 

"  A  Jesuit,"  quoth  he,  "  effaces  himself  or  he  is 
false  to  his  solemn  obligations.  He  is  bound  to  watch 
himself  every  minute  of  his  life,  to  be  on  his  guard 
against  whatever  impulses  proceed  from  the  self,  in 
order  that  he  may  deny  them.  Though  he  becomes 
at  length  the  president  of  a  great  school,  respected  and 
beloved  not  only  by  the  teachers  and  pupils  whom  he 
meets  intimately,  but  by  the  community  at  large  which 
looks  up  to  him  as  a  useful  citizen,  he  is  not  to  expect 
that  he  will  be  suffered  to  gratify  a  natural  wish  to 
remain  such.  Without  a  moment's  warning,  he  may 
be  sent  to  be  the  pastor  of  a  handful  of  wretched 
lepers  on  some  lone  island  in  the  Pacific;  and  unless 
he  goes  with  entire  submission,  without  regret,  cheer- 
fully accepting  the  behest  of  his  general,  then  he  is  less 
than  true  to  his  vows.  Though  there  is  but  the  merest 
trace  of  resentment  and  rebellion  in  his  inmost  soul, 
and  though  it  lasts  but  the  fleetingest  instant,  he  has 
violated  his  obligation.  To  such  a  degree  must  a  Jesuit 
efface  himself." 

Shack  was  delighted.  "  Of  course,"  he  cried. 
"  That's  how  you  get  your  power  over  men.  I  told 
the  bishop  so,  but  he  wouldn't  believe  me." 


138   A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

The  bishop?  It  was  Father  Peter's  curiosity  which 
was  moved,  now,  and  so  the  story  came  out.  But 
though  the  priest  listened  in  kindly  wonder,  the  look 
in  his  face  spelled  anything-  but  approval. 

"  A  Jesuit  has  no  opinions  of  his  own  touching 
sacred  things,"  he  said,  when  he  had  heard  all  about 
the  salvation  of  Jean  Valjean.  "  Those  matters  were 
decided  for  us  long  ago." 

Shack's  face  fell.  He  could  see  the  president  give 
up  his  great  place  and  applaud  the  sacrifice,  but  when 
it  came  to  giving  up  his  father's  business  as  he  under- 
stood it, — well,  he  felt  a  chill,  to  say  the  least. 

Father  Peter  went  on: 

"  Pride  is  the  deadliest  of  all  sins,  in  one  who  has 
been  called  to  serve  God  in  the  holy  ministry;  and 
there  is  no  pride  so  dangerous,  so  unweariedly  to  be 
guarded  against,  as  the  pride  of  opinion,  for  it 
comes  to  us  in  the  most  respectable  garb,  disguised 
as  the  love  of  truth,  than  which  no  sentiment  can  be 
more  admirable, — it  possesses  us  before  we  are  aware 
of  our  danger.  The  Society  is  especially  careful,  by 
its  discipline,  to  save  its  members  from  the  pride  of 
opinion.  A  Jesuit  is  permitted  to  have  no  beliefs  of 
his  own,  no  theories,  no  notions.  What  a  sacrifice 
that  entails  only  the  man  of  active  intellect — and  he 
is  the  type  of  the  Jesuit — can  know;  certainly  it  is 
a  very  great  sacrifice  indeed.  But  it  is  essential  to  be 
made." 

Very  like  a  rebuke.  And  Shack  was  made  ashamed. 
On  the  spot  he  made  his  choice, — no  sacrifice  was  too 
great  for  him.  He  put  all  his  cherished  dreams  away, 
and  stifled  all  regret  for  them. 

"  I  am  ready !  "  he  said,  for  the  third  time. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  join  the  Society  of 
Jesus. 


CHAPTER  VIII, 

HARVEST  OF  HATE 

You  remember  the  A.  P.  A.?  These  were  the 
palmy  days  of  that  extraordinary  league.  It  was  not 
far  from  that  time  that  there  went  abroad  the  famous 
rumor  to  the  effect  that  Catholics  were  secretly  arming 
themselves,  and  only  awaited  a  signal  to  rise  and 
slaughter  their  Protestant  neighbors,  in  another  and 
more  terrible  St.  Bartholomew.  The  story  ran  that 
the  cellars  of  Catholic  churches  were  stored  with 
arms  and  ammunition,  muskets  and  cutlasses,  powder 
and  ball;  and  there,  too,  the  faithful  were  called  to- 
gether by  night,  to  drill,  to  subscribe  sanguinary 
oaths,  to  hearken  to  the  murderous  exhortations  of 
their  priests.  Handbills  were  scattered  broadcast 
which  professed  to  quote,  word  for  word,  an  address 
or  bull  from  the  Pope  himself  admonishing  his  chil- 
dren to  smite  and  spare  not,  and  offering  plenary  in- 
dulgence to  all  who  should  exert  themselves  in  the 
holy  cause.  It  was  a  curious  yarn,  and  more  curious 
still  was  the  credit  given  it.  Sundry  timid  souls, 
though  they  lived  with  Catholics  for  their  near  neigh- 
bors, had  them  for  business  associates,  met  them  in 
company  daily,  saw  all  their  goings-out  and  comings- 
in,  were  nevertheless  stricken  with  a  great  terror,  and 
thought  themselves  in  danger  of  their  lives.  There 
was  a  certain  woman,  not  so  very  exceptional,  per- 

139 


140   A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

haps,  who,  having  taken  to  board  a  weak-eyed,  thin- 
chested,  bloodless  youth,  with  hardly  enough  force  in 
him  to  keep  up  a  conversation, — she  was  made  frantic 
with  fear  when  she  discovered  that  this  specimen  of  a 
man  was  a  Catholic,  and  that  he  often  repaired  to  his 
church  of  an  evening.  She  gathered  all  her  children 
into  her  own  bed,  that  night,  locked  and  barricaded 
the  door,  and  only  after  lying  quaking  and  sleepless 
till  day  dawned,  summoned  courage  to  scream  from 
her  window  to  the  police  to  come  and  take  her  lodger 
away.  Among  such  the  A.  P.  A.  had  a  great  fol- 
lowing, and  there  were  besides  these  not  a  few  who 
thought  they  discerned  in  the  movement  a  popular 
upheaval  which  it  was  worth  their  while  to  get  on  the 
right  side  of. 

The  Catholics,  on  their  part,  didn't  stop  to  try  the 
Christian  virtue  of  turning  the  other  cheek.  The 
A.  P.  A.  they  cordially  detested  and  their  bearing  to- 
ward it  was  anything  but  temperate  and  restrained. 
The  Irish  were  especially  bitter,  thinking  they  had  an 
especial  reason,  for  the  A.  P.  A.  was  closely  related 
to  the  Orange  Order,  which  they  had  been  at  deadly 
odds  with  for  upwards  of  two  centuries.  Even  Irish- 
men who  had  quite  fallen  away  from  their  ancestral 
church,  who  had  neglected  their  religious  duties  these 
years,  would  fume  and  swell  and  bluster  over  the 
A.  P.  A.,  and  show  all  kinds  of  fight,  as  only  Irishmen 
can.  And  the  clergy,  though  warier  about  taking  open 
cognizance  of  the  attack,  at  length  caught  the  infec- 
tion, and  struck  back,  as  opportunity  offered.  After 
all,  priests  were  but  human,  and  bishops  set  over  them 
were  but  human,  and  if  the  old  Adam  was  unapostoli- 
cally  in  evidence,  that  was  a  very  human  condition  of 
things.  The  Jesuits,  wariest  of  all,  were  about  the 


Harvest  of  Hate  141 

last  to  give  way,  but  give  way  they  did,  and  one  Sab- 
bath morning  it  was  announced  from  the  altar  of  Sts. 
Peter  and  Paul  where  the  Real  Presence  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace  was  so  convincingly  suggested,  that  a 
week  later,  at  the  evening  service,  Father  Peter  would 
preach,  and  his  subject  would  be  the  A.  P.  A. 

Shack,  listening  to  the  announcement,  wondered 
what  the  A.  P.  A.  was;  he  had  never  heard  of  it,  or 
the  trouble  it  was  making, — the  flood  of  bitterness  had 
not  touched  him,  in  his  aloofness  He  wondered, 
moreover,  why  Father  Peter  was  chosen  to  preach, 
since  he  was  the  youngest  of  the  faculty,  and  not 
heard  except  on  small  occasions,  in  the  sacristy  or  at 
the  outer  missions?  But  he  was  immensely  pleased, 
and  eager  for  the  appointed  time  to  come;  beyond  a 
doubt  Father  Peter  would  say  something  very  grand 
and  good  and  worth  hearing. 

The  public  at  large  were  better  informed.  Of 
course  they  knew  what  the  A.  P.  A.  was, — its  name 
was  in  all  mouths.  And  they  knew,  too,  why  Father 
Peter  was  appointed  to  preach.  It  was  the  commonest 
fling  of  the  A.  P.  A.  that  Catholics  were  foreigners 
and  remained  foreigners,  no  matter  how  long  they 
lived  in  America.  But  Father  Peter  was  undeniably 
not  foreign, — few  had  so  good  a  title  to  the  contrary. 
His  father  had  fallen  in  the  charge  of  the  Irish  Bri- 
gade at  Fredericksburg,  and  his  great  grandfather  had 
starved  with  Washington  at  Valley  Forge;  and  what 
was  more,  everybody  knew  it.  Father  Peter  was  in  an 
especial  sense  qualified  to  speak  of  the  A.  P.  A. 

The  occasion  brought  out  a  big  attendance,  and  onee 
more  the  vast  edifice  found  itself  filled  to  overflowing, 
Shack's  bosom  swelled  with  exultation  when  he  per- 
ceived what  a  multitude  had  assembled, —  it  made  his 


142  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

friend  a  great  figure.  All  these  thousands  should  hang 
upon  his  lips,  should  take  thereupon  refreshment,  and 
Father  Peter's  light  should  shine  before  the  faces  of 
men,  for  their  illumination.  As  for  himself  he  went 
in  two  hours  before  the  hour,  supperless  and  with 
never  a  thought  of  supper,  he  was  so  anxious  to  get 
a  place  near  the  pulpit,  where  no  word,  no  gesture,  no 
least  look  should  escape  him  The  pulpit  was  a  box- 
like  affair,  hung  against  a  massive  pillar  like  a  bird- 
cage, with  spiral  stairs  leading  up  to  it;  and  Shack 
sat  almost  directly  below. 

There  were  the  usual  vespers,  and  the  benediction 
of  the  sacrament,  hurried  through  with,  for  almost  no 
one  was  there  for  vespers  or  benediction;  and  then 
Father  Peter  came  down  from  the  altar,  in  his  black 
robe,  girded  at  the  waist  with  a  coarse  rope,  and 
mounted  the  pulpit. 

And  yet  was  it  Father  Peter? 

Shack,  who  had  known  him  in  many  moods,  hardly 
knew  him  at  all,  now.  Who  had  ever  seen  him  look 
like  that  ?  The  rosy  flush  had  departed  from  his  cheek 
and  the  merry  twinkle  was  gone  from  his  eye.  He 
was  very  pale,  with  a  sinister  pallor  suggestive  of  evil 
passion,  and  he  glared  down  from  his  high  place  as 
fiercely  as  a  wild  beast.  His  fine  face  was  distorted 
with  the  tenseness  of  its  muscles, — his  jaws,  showing 
all  too  coarsely  now,  were  set  as  if  they  never  meant 
to  open.  His  very  hair  bristled,  as  might  an  angry 
dog's, — the  soft,  thick  hair  which  had  ever  seemed 
such  a  fit  crown  become  a  tumbled  mop  to  add  its 
touch  to  the  disquieting  picture.  Shack  stared  up, 
wondered  first  if  it  was  Father  Peter,  hoped  for  an  in- 
stant it  might  not  be,  turned  cold  and  shivered  at 
length  with  the  certainty  that  it  was  none  other. 


Harvest  of  Hate  143 

And  the  sermon, — who  had  ever  heard  its  like? 
Water  to  a  thirsting  soul?  That  was  what  Shack 
was  expecting.  And  water  it  was,  perhaps,  but  seeth- 
ing hot,  to  sear  instead  of  refresh. 

Father  Peter  did  not  forget  his  art,  hard  learned 
with  the  assiduous  practice  of  many  years.  But 
though  he  began  quietly,  with  an  assumption  of  almost 
conversational  ease,  no  art  could  suppress  the  hiss  in 
his  voice.  And  the  hiss  grew,  and  brought  in  other 
disagreeable  things  to  bear  it  company,  until  pres- 
ently all  restraint  was  thrown  away  and  Loyola's 
ardent  disciple  let  himself  stand  forth  that  spectacle  of 
least  appeal, — a  man  with  a  personal  grievance. 

He  asked  his  hearers  to  think  of  Ireland,  as  Ireland 
was  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, — the  home  of 
a  virtuous,  seemly  people,  who  loved  their  country  and 
were  true  to  the  faith  of  their  fathers.  Because  they 
were  true  to  their  faith  and  loved  their  country  the 
miscreant  Cromwell  was  offended  and  visited  them 
with  his  displeasure, — came  with  his  trained  fighting 
men,  and  put  the  peaceful  people  down,  and  set  his 
iron  heel  on  their  necks.  Who  had  not  heard  of 
Drogheda,  the  village  which  dared  resist  the  invader, 
the  robber,  the  murderer,  who  made  good  his  title  and 
sealed  his  infamy  to  the  end  of  time  by  putting  not  only 
the  men  but  the  women  and  children  to  the  sword? 
It  was  the  act  of  a  savage,  the  parallel  to  which  you 
will  scarce  find  in  the  annals  of  Indian  warfare, — but 
it  was  by  no  means  the  worst  he  did.  He  sent  hun- 
dreds of  families  away  into  exile,  to  rot  under  the 
pitiless  sun  of  the  tropics,  but  even  that  wasn't  the 
worst.  The  worst  was  the  literal  curse  which  he  laid 
upon  the  land,  the  curse  o'  Crummell,  as  you  will 
hear  it  spoken  of  to  this  day,  when  he  brought  over 


144  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

those  colonists  from  England  to  take  the  land  from 
its  rightful  owners.  The  devil  that  possessed  the 
master  possessed  likewise  these  his  true  servants.  The 
oppression  he  began  they  carried  on  with  fiendish 
zeal, — the  pattern  he  set  they  exceeded  in  all  that  made 
it  wicked. 

"  And  it  was  by  such  a  heat,"  cried  Father  Peter, 
"  that  this  serpent  called  the  A.  P.  A.  was  hatched. 
From  those  crimes,  the  blackest  in  all  human  history, 
springs  the  evil  plant  which  flowers  among  us  to-day, 
to  offend,  with  its  pestilent  stench,  the  nostrils  of  de- 
cent men.  Though  deprived  of  its  proper  atmosphere 
of  cruelty  and  tyranny  and  revenge  and  murder  and 
rapine,  it  feeds  itself  on  lies  and  slander,  and  makes 
shift  to  live  and  trouble  the  ways  of  honest  people." 

Shack  understood  nothing,  but  he  felt, — these  were 
frightful  things,  frightfully  spoken  of;  and  the  cold 
struck  to  his  marrow. 

This  hideous  monstrosity  (Father  Peter  proceeded) 
was  not  fetched  hither  directly  from  Ireland.  No,  it 
had  been  given  the  benefit  of  a  transplantation,  into 
fit  soil,  namely,  the  soil  of  Canada,  where  the  old 
feuds  could  be  kept  up,  because  Canada  was  British, 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  nation  which  was  not  ashamed 
to  account  Cromwell  one  of  its  most  glorious  names, 
not  ashamed  to  deify  a  red-handed  murderer;  because 
Canada  was  peopled  with  traitors  who,  when  they 
could  no  longer  make  the  colonies  Tory,  fled  to  the 
north  and  became  the  enemies  of  their  country. 
Traitors!  Behold  their  spawn,  years  later,  when  the 
free  states  were  in  a  life-and-death  struggle, — behold 
the  spawn  of  these  traitors  plotting  still  against  all 
that  was  good  and  true  and  noble,  in  behalf  of  all  that 
was  base  and  wrong.  That  was  Canada,  and  that  was 


Harvest  of  Hate  145 

the  soil  to  which  the  curse  o'  Crummell  was  trans- 
planted, to  gather  venom  for  this  last  assault  on  free 
institutions. 

"  And  shall  these  reptiles,"  here  Father  Peter  raised 
his  voice  till  the  arches  rang,  "  come  here  and  tell  me 
I  am  not  an  American  because  I  am  a  Catholic,  be- 
cause I  am  a  priest,  because  I  am  a  Jesuit  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  paused,  and  a  perfect  stillness  fell 
on  the  multitude.  When  he  resumed,  it  was  in  another 
voice,  his  splendid  bass,  now,  rolling  out  like  the 
diapason  of  an  organ. 

"  Is  there,"  he  thundered,  tossing  his  head  defiantly, 
"  is  there,  within  the  sound  of  my  voice,  a  member  of 
the  A.  P.  A.?" 

Again  he  paused,  and  the  stillness  was  like  the 
stillness  of  death. 

"  If  there  be,"  he  went  on,  with  a  scornful  curl  of 
his  lip,  "  let  him  act  the  man  for  once  in  his  life,  and 
come  forth,  and  confront  me ! " 

He  leaned  low  over  the  bar  of  the  pulpit  and 
glared  into  the  startled  faces  upturned  to  him.  He 
looked  a  lion  about  to  spring.  It  was  terrible.  Shack's 
heart  stood  still. 

"  Nobody  comes  forth ! "  roared  the  priest,  tre- 
mendously. "  Let  him  cower,  then,  and  creep  on  his 
belly  like  the  reptile  he  is,  but  nevertheless  let  him  hear 
what  I  have  to  say.  Let  him  know,  and  let  his 
wicked  order  know,  that  I  hurl  down  the  gage  of 
battle  to  them  all.  I  imprecate  God's  choicest  damna- 
tion on  them,  and  so  far  as  in  me  lies  I  make  myself 
the  instrument  of  that  damnation.  Between  such  as 
they  and  me,  there  can  be  but  one  sentiment,  and  for 
that  sentiment  there  can  be  but  one  name, — undying, 
unrelenting  HATE!" 


146  A  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilderness 

Shack  heard  no  more.  That  black  word,  spoken  in 
that  black  way,  blotted  out  everything, — everything, 
— the  Holy  Name  flaming  aloft,  the  dear  gilt  figure  on 
the  altar,  all  vanished.  There  was  nothing  but  black- 
ness round  about  him,  and  it  stifled  him. 

The  people  drifted  slowly  out  through  the  narrow 
doors,  and  he  drifted  with  them, — he  could  do  no 
other,  for  he  was  only  an  atom  in  the  mass.  But  when 
he  was  out  at  last,  and  free  of  the  hampering  crowd, 
with  the  heavens  his  only  roof  and  his  only  walls,  he 
broke  into  his  swiftest  run. 


BOOK  IV 
DR.  ROBERT'S  DIARY 


DR.  ROBERT'S   DIARY 

17  of  May. 

As  I  hoped,  so  was  it  to  be.  If  I  was  lonely  before, 
how  glad  am  I  not  become !  My  boy  have  come  back 
to  me. 

Yet  with  a  sadness. 

I  am  like  unto  the  father  whose  only  son  has  re- 
turned. But  he  is  no  more  the  son  he  was.  Alas  not ! 

He  stole  upon  me  without  warning.  It  was  this 
morning.  I  went  to  the  barn  to  give  the  horses  break- 
fast. The  door  of  the  barn  stood  open.  I  was 
startled.  Had  thieves,  then,  visited  me,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  the  years?  No,  it  was  far  from  so.  In  a 
moment  I  heard  the  voice, — the  voice  of  Jacques. 

He  was  rubbing  the  horses  &  speaking  to  them.  Al- 
ready he  had  given  them  breakfast. 

I  stood  in  the  doorway.    He  looked  up. 

Jacques:     "Good   morning!" 

Myself :     "  Ah,  my  boy !     You  have  come  back !  " 

I  was  full  of  emotion,  but  he  was  as  he  had  not  been 
absent,  as  there  had  been  none  of  the  many,  many 
months.  Had  he  been  with  me  yesterday,  it  is  so  he 
would  have  speak  on  seeing  me  for  the  first  time 
to-day.  To  say  "  Good  morning!  "  this  was  among  the 
things  which  I  taught  him.  In  the  lumber-camp  he 
would  be  long  learning  so  much  of  manners. 

The  horses  which  he  rubbed  while  they  partook  of 
breakfast,  their  joy  was  large.  No  wonder!  Was 

149 


150  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

it  not  he  who  rubbed  them  last?  For  the  horse  to 
be  rubbed  it  is  equal  in  joy  to  the  man  who  bathes 
after  journey  so  long  &  hot  &  dustful  My  neglect  of 
the  beasts  is  extremely  shameful.  The  litter  so  much 
had  it  accumulated  should  remind  Jacques  that  he 
was  long  away,  but  no. 

How  should  I  not  derive  alarm?  He  cleaned  the 
stables  in  the  manner  of  his  saying  the  "  Good  morn- 
ing !  "  That  is,  no  intelligence  was  in  it, — only  the 
habit.  Habit — the  instinct  in  actu — was  guide  him 
back  to  the  things  of  familiarity,  &  the  things  of 
familiarity  provoke  more  instinct,  more  habit.  Such 
my  thought,  while  I  observe  him.  Was  he  become  a 
wreck  of  the  mind?  What  a  sadness! 

He  make  the  breakfast  for  me,  as  of  old.  However, 
I  could  not  eat,  for  the  alarm,  &  the  sadness.  He  re- 
gard me  with  an  expression.  For  me  not  to  eat, 
this  should  interrupt  the  familiarity  of  things,  it 
was  the  cause  of  the  habit  faltering,  the  instinct  to 
doubt  of  itself.  Yet  he  say  nothing. 

He  will  set  the  house  in  order.  There  was  very 
much  to  do, — once  again  the  interruption  of  the 
familiarity.  He  gazed  at  the  thick  dirt  covering  the 
floor,  &  there  was  perplexity  with  him  for  a  moment. 

My  heart  grow  heavier. 

He  will  prepare  dinner  &  there  is  more  perplexity. 
He  went  out  in  the  little  field,  where  nothing  is  but 
weeds.  He  search,  was  troubled,  I  hear  him  mutter 
with  himself.  He  examined  the  vines  on  the  fence, 
on  the  house,  in  an  anxious  manner.  Was  that  for 
the  identifying,  for  the  making  sure  if  he  was  indeed 
come  home?  As  a  dog  might  sniff,  to  make  himself 
sure! 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  151 

Presently  he  came  in.  He  brings  dandelions,  mus- 
tard. These  he  boil. 

To  myself  I  declare :  "  I  must  eat.  I  am  not  hungry, 
but  I  must  not  shake  the  habit,  proceeding  from  the 
familiarity  of  things.  In  the  habit  all  hope  lies.  I 
must  keep  him  in  the  habit,  which  will  perhaps  lead 
him  to  himself." 

I  ate.     The  dinner  was  excellent. 

In  afternoon  I  observe  him  in  the  field.  He  was 
search,  troubled.  I  thereupon  drew  him  away. 
"  Come !  "  I  say.  We  went  in  the  woods.  I  put  his 
club  in  his  hand.  A  partridge  flew  up,  it  was  perhaps 
ten  yards  off,  he  let  fly  and  he  kill  the  bird !  He  exults. 
His  eye  grew  bright  and  he  chatter  excitedly,  in 
Indian. 

For  supper  he  roasts  the  partridge.  He  has 
appetite.  Now  he  have  gone  to  bed,  to  sleep  at  once, 
to  snore  loudly. 

He  has  been  in  illness,  I  can  detect.  Yet  in  the 
bodily  way  he  is  not  less  well.  Witness  the  appetite, 
the  sleeping  with  snores.  Because  the  mind,  with  its 
turmoil,  troubles  him  no  more,  being  a  blank  ? 

If  so,  too  bad ! 

Of  what  have  happen  him,  he  hints  no  suggestion. 
If  I  will  ask  him, — he  regards  me  with  blankness. 


25  of  May. 

I  sing,  with  the  viol,  as  formerly.  But  no,  he  will 
not  join.  I  show  him  the  books.  He  will  look  at 
them.  He  will  hold  the  book  in  his  hand,  stare  at  the 
page.  However,  he  does  not  read.  After  a  time, 
he  turn  away,  or  it  may  be  fall  asleep. 

If  he  is  melancholy,  it  will  be  English  in  which  he 


152  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

mutters.  I  have  hear  him  say,  below  his  breath: 
"The  world,  very  big!" 

[But  if  he  speak  up  gladly,  it  is  in  Indian. 

No  doubt  he  is  day  by  day  the  Indian  more.  The 
simple,  the  gentle  savage.  He  rejoices  to  roam  the 
woods,  to  hunt,  to  fish.  He  will  search  no  longer  the 
garden,  perplexedly.  Once  he  have  omit  to  rub  the 
horse.  Twice  he  have  omit  to  set  the  house  in  order. 
Since  when  he  look  up  to  me  in  the  door  of  the  stable 
he  have  never  say :  "  Good  morning !  " 

The  habit  weakens?     Sad! 

For  what  then? 

Anyway  it  will  be  better  he  became  the  savage  than 
the  idiot.  On  the  savage  there  is  building  afresh. 


9  of  June. 

To-day  I  was  call  away,  to  a  patient.  About  the 
hour  of  noon  I  return.  Jacques  not  to  be  seen ! 

Nor  is  dinner  prepared.  But  for  that  matter  I  was 
not  hungry. 

My  thought :  "  He  is  gone !  He  is  vanished  for- 
ever!" 

That  was  the  moment  at  which  I  beheld  smoke 
rising  from  the  woods.  I  proceeded  to  it.  Jacques 
was  there.  He  have  built  a  small  fire,  to  cook  an 
animal.  He  is  eating  the  same  as  I  come  up.  He 
tears  it  with  his  teeth.  He  smears  his  face  with  the 
fat. 

The  animal  was  a  muskrat. 

There  lives  with  me  the  great  fear  to  lose  him. 
He  is  my  boy  still,  though  the  Indian.  Moreover, 
if  I  shall  keep  him  with  me,  he  may  become  more  than 
the  Indian,  as  he  was  before.  Instinct  guides  him. 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  153 

What  day  may  not  his  instinct  point  him  to  the  wilder- 
ness whence  he  came?  Or  what  night? 

I  fear  the  night  most.  He  sleeps  like  a  child.  I 
listen  while  he  snores.  I  dare  not  to  close  my  eyes 
for  the  apprehension  he  will  waken  and  flit  away  like 
a  dream.  To  lose  him — what  pain!  Intolerable! 
Such  wish  have  I  to  keep  him! 

Is  it  to  be  selfish  ?  Yes.  I  cannot  deny.  I  wish  to 
keep  him  in  order  that  I  shall  have  the  son  in  my  old 
age. 

Yet  there  is  more. 

The  faithful  will  speak  of  Providence.  Since  I  am 
a  pagan,  I  will  speak  of  Fate.  It  is  equal,  by  any 
name, — the  power  of  the  destiny, — that  which  moves 
men  about,  working  upon  them  from  without  and 
from  within. 

Was  it  by  chance  my  boy  came  to  me  first  ?  Not ! 
Fate  sent  him  to  me,  for  a  purpose.  Also  Fate  took 
him  away,  for  a  purpose.  How  do  I  know? 
Precisely  for  the  reason  that  I  could  bow  myself 
to  his  going, — there  was  regret,  but  always  something 
told  me  he  should  go.  That  was  the  voice  of  Fate. 
Accordingly,  I  submit  to  let  him  go.  But  he  came 
back  to  me, — to  me,  not  to  his  wilderness!  Should 
it  be  chance  ?  Not !  Fate  have  sent  him  back  to  me, 
for  a  purpose. 

What  may  be  this  purpose,  who  knows?  Not  I. 
I  only  know  my  part, — it  shall  be  what  I  say. 

The  wish  to  keep  him,  which  fills  me  so,  which 
makes  me  lie  waking  at  night,  for  the  apprehension  to 
lose  him, — it  is  the  proof  of  my  appointment.  I  am 
appointed  to  keep  him,  anyway  for  a  time.  The  wish, 
so  strong  and  so  filling,  is  the  voice  of  Fate,  command- 
ing me  to  my  part. 


1 54  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

There  is  selfishness  in  me,  but  there  is  more. 

My  boy  has  come,  in  his  course,  to  the  brink  of  a 
chasm, — I  should  call  it  the  chasm  of  forgetfulness. 
I  am  chosen  to  convey  him  safely  over. 

Credo!    This  do  I  believe. 

17  of  June. 

There  is  yet  fire  in  the  flint.  It  have  been  struck 
forth,  though  the  steel  should  not  be  of  my  bringing. 

To  the  little  schoolhouse  about  i  mile  from  here 
comes  to  preach,  now  and  then,  in  the  afternoon  of 
Sunday,  an  old  man.  He  came  yesterday.  It  may 
have  been  about  2  o'clock  when  a  wagon ful  of  the 
pious,  going  to  hear  him,  passed  by.  They  were  men 
&  women  &  children,  perhaps  8  or  9  of  them.  I  was 
sitting  within,  out  of  the  sight  of  these  persons. 
Jacques  loitered  under  the  tree.  To  him,  lying  under 
the  tree,  the  people  called  out,  with  the  invitation  to 
go  with  them.  He  sprang  up,  climbed  in  the  wagon, 
amid  laughter  and  gayety,  after  which  they  drove  on. 

I  felt  the  jealousy.  It  was  lonely  to  see  him  depart, 
though  it  shall  be  only  for  a  season.  However,  why 
may  I  not  be  glad  if  the  neighbors  will  help  me  to 
keep  him?  Jealousy,  it  is  the  selfish  part. 

At  5  o'clock  I  see  him  next.  I  sit  within.  I  am 
thinking  of  him,  too,  when  he  darts  before  me.  He 
is  in  a  hurry.  He  falls  upon  the  tall  weeds  in  the 
garden,  pulling  them  up,  until  he  have  a  space  cleared. 
I  am  considerably  amazed.  Yet  the  augury  is  ex- 
cellent. Is  not  the  habit  becoming  restored? 

His  face  betrays  intelligence,  shining  brightly. 

He  leaves  the  weeds.  He  is  busy  with  the  vines, 
tying  them  up  in  some  place  where  they  will  fall 
down. 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  155 

After  all  he  hastens  to  the  stable.  There  he  rubs 
the  horse. 

His  countenance  shines  more  and  more.  Will  the 
habit  lift  him  to  the  level  of  the  conscious?  I  wait 
for  him  to  speak.  He  speaks  nothing,  however. 

Without  a  word  he  retires  to  bed. 

But  in  the  night  he  calls  out.  I  hear  him  say, 
distinctly ;  "  They  build  a  tower  of  Babel !  " 

I  run.  He  is  started  up.  He  exclaims :  "  The 
bishop!"  Afterwards:  "Nora!" 

The  excitement  upon  him  is  not  to  my  like.  I  wish 
to  fan  up  the  flame, — to  bring  forward  the  intelligence. 
But  the  fever  burns  in  his  cheek.  I  choose  instead 
to  soothe  him.  I  sit  by  him,  to  hold  his  hand,  to  rub 
his  brow  lightly,  until  he  falls  asleep. 

What  shall  the  morrow  bring?  It  was  that  I  ask 
myself,  while  I  sit  with  him.  Shall  he  be  himself? 
Or  shall  he  be  the  Indian  ? 

The  morrow  have  come.     He  is — the  Indian ! 

From  neighbors  I  soon  discover  that  the  old  man  of 
the  schoolhouse  preached  his  discourse  upon  the  tower 
of  Babel, — I  resolve  to  make  trial  of  the  flint,  to  strike 
more  spark.  I  resolve  to  take  the  steel  in  my  own 
hand,  with  the  hope  to  strike  in  the  right  manner. 

The  trial  was  to-night. 

From  the  Scripture  I  read  out  this  story,  of  the 
tower,  in  a  slow  way,  with  much  meaning,  and  thrill  in 
my  voice.  Jacques  listens, — in  silence,  however. 

More  will  be  necessary,  then.  I  venture,  at  hazard : 
"  The  old  man  of  the  schoolhouse,  he  builds  a  tower 
of  Babel?" 

No  word. 

Myself:  "The  bishop,  he  builds  a  tower  of 
Babel!" 


156  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

No  word. 

Myself,  casting  about :    "  Or  Nora ! " 

No  word. 

The  trial  fails.  The  spark  springs  not  forth,  for 
me.  Because  it  is  dead, — gone  out  with  the  one  flash  ? 
No,  I  will  not  say  so.  Rather  will  I  say  that  I  bungle 
with  the  steel, — for  that  the  spark  answers  not. 

Who  may  have  been  Nora  ?  An  affair  of  the  heart  ? 
Incredible!  He  is  not  the  being  for  such.  Yet  he 
is  a  man  withal. 

6  of  July. 

He  is  greatly  as  a  child.  Why  not,  I  ask,  treat  him 
as  a  child? 

When  I  am  far  call,  whereby  I  shall  be  absent  during 
many  hours,  at  times  by  night,  I  fear  for  to  leave 
him, — the  loneliness,  I  declare,  will  be  upon  him  to 
prompt  him  to  be  off.  I  discover  the  necessity  for 
to  procure  with  him  some  interest  which  shall  cause 
him  to  wish  to  accompany  with  me. 

It  is  his  vanity  I  will  herewith  work  upon.  Vanity 
is  elemental.  The  child  is  vain, — even  the  beast. 

But  how?  Very  simply,  I  assure  him  that  the 
horses  will  travel  very  much  the  better  if  he  will  drive 
him.  I  deplore  my  own  lack  of  skill,  how  little  I 
grasp  the  art.  If  he  drive,  I  praise  his  manner  loudly. 

The  stratagem  work  admirably.  It  come  about  very 
presently  that  he  will  not  let  me  drive.  He  will  go 
with  me  everywhere. 

To-day,  for  experiment,  I  will  take  up  the  reins, 
as  we  are  starting  forth.  What  takes  place?  He 
snatches  the  reins  from  me,  with  impatience, — he 
scolds  me,  after  a  fashion.  I  affect  much  humility, 
under  his  frown.  In  my  heart,  meanwhile,  I  am 
jubilant. 


Dr.   Robert's   Diary  157 

He  fattens.  He  becomes  another  person,  bodily. 
For  this  I  am  far  from  wholly  glad.  It  speaks  of  the 
torpor  of  the  mind, — perhaps  more.  His  tempera- 
ment is  not  for  fat,  which  accordingly  speaks  of  that 
which  is  not  well. 

i  of  August. 

He  is  in  small  danger  to  leave  me.  Not  as  I  feared, 
at  all  events.  It  is  another  manner  of  leaving  which 
is  to  apprehend, — worse!  He  sleeps  too  much.  He 
grows  too  fat.  He  breathes  hard,  is  dull.  He  for- 
gets to  be  the  Indian,  even, — neglects  his  woods, — 
loiters, — drowses.  This  is  not  at  all  the  well  Indian. 

Always  is  he  with  me.  Like  a  dog  he  follows, — my 
shadow ! 

Lower  than  savagery  he  lapses,  sadly  lower. 
Imbecility!  Yet  will  that  be  the  worst?  I  fear,  I 
fear!  The  fat  gathers  about  his  heart.  His  brain 
is  touched,  until  he  have  the  confusion  of  ideas.  To 
him  remains  clear  but  the  one  idea,  that  I  am  not  fit 
to  drive  the  horse, — it  has  possessed  him  much. 

What  shall  the  fat  end  in?  I  speak  it  with  cold 
heart, — death ! 

If  he  will  only  live ! 

Once  I  have  know  the  woman  who  was  mother  of 
some  fine  children  &  an  idiot  besides.  Which  loved 
she  best?  Precisely  the  idiot.  He  was  a  helpless 
thing,  a  burden  for  her  night  &  day,  loathsome, 
hideous, — yet  on  him  precisely  was  her  love  rested. 
For  him  would  she  slight  the  others, — for  him  she 
thought  first.  He  survived  more  than  thirty  years, 
to  the  end  he  was  more  irkful  than  a  baby, — when  he 
died  at  last,  the  woman  was  torn  with  grief.  She 
mourned  &  mourned. 


158  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

A  trait  of  the  human  nature,  than  which  nothing 
is  more  strange.  But  I  fathom  the  woman's  senti- 
ment as  never  before  up  till  yet. 

If  only  I  can  have  my  boy!  If  he  die,  how  shall  I 
endure  it? 

8  of  September. 

He  still  lives.  But  a  crisis  draws  on, — it  may  be 
the  crisis  of  dissolution. 

If  such  be  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  so  be! 

To-day  I  could  not  wake  him.  For  5  hours  he 
would  lie  insensible.  His  heart — bad.  His  breath — 
difficult. 

I  have  brace  myself  for  the  end.     Fortitude! 

But  he  open  his  eye,  after  all.  I  was  by.  He  say : 
'*'  Good  morning !  " — the  first  time  for  long. 

Ever  since  he  have  been  more  bright, — or  am  I 
wrong?  Though  I  shall  be  right,  it  may  be  augury  of 
the  worst,  notwithstanding. 

15  of  September. 

Another  spark  from  the  flint! 

It  is  to-night. 

We  are  driving  in  from  far.  The  moon,  which  is 
almost  full,  looks  down  in  a  lovely  manner.  The 
evening  is  such  as  a  poet  will  sing  in  praise  of,  so 
mild,  so  bright,  so  friendly.  A  peace  broods.  You 
are  impossible  not  to  be  touch  by  the  evening. 

Jacques  sits  by  me,  with  the  reins.  Since  a  week 
he  has  been  more  and  more  bright.  Now  and  then 
he  will  speak  to  the  horses.  He  will  say :  "  Come, 
boys !  "  or,  "  Steady,  boys !  "  or  possibly  other  words. 

Suddenly  he  sings. 

At  the  moment  we  are  pass  through  a  leafy  aisle, 
where  the  tall  tree  rise,  and  the  moon  shines  densely 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  159 

down  upon  us.  You  can  swear  you  feel  the  beams 
of  this,  they  are  so  strong. 

The  song  he  sings  is  to  me  strange.  Moreover,  he 
sings  it  only  in  part, — in  snatches.  I  find  myself 
startled,  also  thrilled  with  the  thought  what  it  may 
mean.  But  I  remember  to  listen.  To  fix,  in  my  mind, 
the  phrase  of  the  melody,  this  I  endeavor, — and  the 
words.  Though  of  words  he  make  to  be  distinguished 
only  these :  "  Pass  me  not,  O  gentle  Saviour !  " 

Already  it  will  have  flash  upon  me  what  I  am  to  do. 
Accordingly  I  am  very  busy  to  rehearse  within  myself 
the  phrases  of  broken  melody,  that  I  may  not  lose 
them. 

They  shall  be  the  key  to  the  riddle  given  into  my 
hand, — it  is  thus  the  voice  of  hope  discourses  to  me. 

What,  then,  is  my  purpose?  To  write,  forthwith, 
to  a  house  which  deal  in  musical  merchandise.  I  shall 
ask  have  they  a  song  which  comprises  the  word,  "  Pass 
me  not,  O  gentle  Saviour !  "  together  with  these  bits 
of  melody.  For  I  have  noted  them  down,  rudely. 

But  for  my  experiment  I  shall  wait  till  the  moon  is 
once  more  as  she  shall  be  to-night, — in  short,  till  the 
13  of  October. 

We  shall  see. 

14  of  October. 

The  hour  has  become  4  o'clock  in  the  morning, — 
I  have  not  sleep.  I  must  write.  The  necessity  is 
upon  me.  To  the  deaf  pages  of  the  paper  I  may  at  all 
events  tell  my  joy. 

Joy! 

Last  night  is  the  destined  time,  13  of  October. 
How  was  the  moon?  Precisely  as  before,  the  evening 
lovely,  very  soft. 


160  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

Of  late  my  boy — should  I  say  he  was  sunk  back? 
At  any  rate,  he  gave  himself  to  sleeping.  When  he 
was  eaten,  it  is  his  way  to  stretch  himself  upon  the 
couch.  When  he  is  not  by,  I  have  shift  the  couch, 
little  by  little,  till  it  is  by  the  window  of  the  east.  Last 
night  it  was  so.  After  our  supper  Jacques  lay  there. 
I  observe  him.  He  stare  into  the  face  of  the  moon, 
the  moon  shine  strongly  upon  him.  In  such  wise  he 
fell  to  sleep. 

The  music  was  obtain.  With  it  I  prepare  myself, 
very  privately.  It  is  for  two  voices.  Very  well, 
however.  My  own  shall  be  one,  the  viol's  shall  be 
the  other.  By  last  night  all  is  readiness. 

The  moon  rise  higher.     It  is  now  time. 

I  draw  near  to  the  couch.  I  touch  the  viol  tenderly. 
I  sing. 

What?  First  a  flutter  of  his  eye.  Then  his  lip 
will  part,  while  a  small  moan  is  uttered.  He  stir, 
shiver. 

He  wakes!  I  see  him  at  one  glance.  He  wake  al- 
together,— the  soul  of  him,  the  soul  of  him !  Through 
his  eye  I  behold  his  soul, — it  is  awake,  as  formerly, — 
no,  more  than  formerly,  more  than  ever.  The  godlike 
part,  prostrate  a  little  ago,  now  stand  up.  It  look  out 
to  me  with  the  light  of  reason. 

Tears!  There  are  many  tears.  Many  of  these  are 
mine.  I  do  not  finish  the  song.  I  cannot.  Besides, 
what  need?  I  place  the  viol  in  its  corner.  I  gather 
my  boy  to  my  bosom.  I  kiss  him. 

After  all,  we  are  both  Frenchmen,  are  we  not? 

He  will  say  much,  at  once, — full  of  memory  grown 
awake.  But  I  restrain  him. 

Myself :  "  Not  now.  When  you  have  sleep  and  re- 
fresh yourself.  To-morrow,  let  us  say." 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  161 

Jacques :  "  To-morrow  I  perhaps  do  not  remem- 
ber!" 

It  is  the  look  of  fear  in  his  face,  as  one  haunted. 
I  consider.  Was  his  waking  only  the  rift  in  the 
cloud,  which  will  presently  close  up  darkly?  No,  no! 
Of  a  sureness  the  sky  was  cleared. 

Myself :  "  Be  not  afraid.     You  will  remember." 

Ah,  the  danger  is  not  that.  Out  of  the  quagmire  of 
idiocy  he  have  emerge.  But  on  his  other  hand  there 
will  yawn  the  gulf  of  insanity.  It  is  but  a  narrow 
way  for  him.  The  reminiscence  which  are  to  excite, 
the  painful,  it  may  be, — these  we  will  leave  for  awhile. 

I  disclose  frankly.  I  say :  "  It  is  perilous.  Do 
not  hasten,  lest  you  stumble.  There  is  danger  to  fall 
far." 

He  is  trouble.  He  say :  "  I  shall  not  go  back  into 
f orgetf ulness  ?  " 

I  say :  "  No,  unless  you  make  yourself  too  wrought 
up." 

He  was  willing  to  sleep,  at  length,  but  his  exal- 
tation was  great, — not  until  hours  did  he  grow  tran- 
quil. His  thought  mounted,  to  burst  out.  To  keep 
him  from  talking,  I  talked,  I  chattered. 

I  told  stories,  of  Europe.  I  recall  so  many  I  was 
surprise  to  myself.  Some  were  ludicrous.  Some  were 
concerning  adventures. 

He  sleeps.     Between  4  &  5  of  the  A.  M. 

7  of  November. 

No  slip  in  the  quagmire.  Nor  plunge  in  the  gulf 
on  the  other  hand.  So  far  he  walks  safely  his  path. 

He  ceases  to  grow  fat.  But  will  he  grow  too  thin  ? 
Already  there  is  a  meagerness  in  his  face. 

To-day  I  have  persuade  him  to  walk  in  the  wood 


1 62  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

with  me.  I  bade  him  carry  his  club  to  kill  us  a 
partridge.  There  was  no  partridge,  but  a  rabbit 
sprang  up,  only  a  few  feet  away.  Jacques  let  throw 
his  club,  yet  he  was  not  at  all  near  to  hitting  the  beast. 
I  could  have  thrown  better  myself.  He  laugh,  he 
do  not  pick  up  the  club.  I  bring  it  home.  If  he  shall 
take  it  never  more  in  his  hand,  I  shall  be  no  surprise. 

The  Indian  may  well  have  departed  out  of  him.  In 
short,  I  shall  surmise  him  to  have  depart.  The  in- 
tellect comes  into  its  own.  The  godlike  glows,  to 
scatter  the  inward  fog,  until  he  is  more  intellectual. 
The  thought  runs  clear.  He  will  grope  for  the  word, 
but  the  thought  runs  clear  like  the  water  brook.  Or 
am  I  wrong? 

If  only  the  frail  body  may  bear  up.  I  observe  him 
narrowly.  I  have  apprehension  of  the  bones  of  his 
jaw,  they  are  too  much  seen,  while  the  great  artery 
of  his  neck,  it  is  as  should  all  his  blood  be  drive  to  his 
brain  at  once. 

He  remembers  to  tell  me  much.  I  am  informed  who 
the  bishop  was,  and  who  Nora.  I  am  not  mistaking. 
The  lady  was  but  the  bishop's  servant.  An  affair  of 
the  heart,  it  shall  be  outside  the  question.  For  Jacques, 
the  woman  is  the  man  who  is  not  so  tall,  and  more- 
over wears  skirts, — not  else. 

1 8  of  November. 

He  will  tell  me  of  far  time.  It  is  long  since  the 
voice  began  calling  him.  First  it  was  an  uneasiness, 
no  more.  The  other  boys  would  eat  their  fill,  be  con- 
tent, wish  for  nothing.  He  was  never  content.  He 
wish  for  something,  he  know  not  what, — for  not 
knowing  he  shall  be  the  more  uneasy.  Once  a  mis- 
sionary come  to  the  camp  where  he  was  live.  The 


Dr.  Robert's  Diary  163 

missionary  preach.  The  call  was  more  plain.  The 
missionary  hold  up  his  Bible.  The  voice  call  to 
Jacques:  "Take  it!"  He  take  the  Bible.  He  run 
away.  That  is  the  Bible  he  bring  to  me,  saying: 
"  You  will  make  me  read  in  this  book ! "  The  voice 
command  him,  or  he  fancy  it  command  him. 

To  read!  That  trouble  him  very  much.  He  scan 
the  page, — it  was  to  his  eye  the  book  of  seven  seals. 
The  voice  command,  reproach, — he  is  in  a  frenzy. 

He  ask  a  man  he  meet,  how  shall  he  read?  The 
man  will  bid  him  go  to  school.  He  ask  another  man. 
Again  the  school.  Where  is  the  school?  He  ask 
that, — he  is  directed. 

So  he  enter  the  school. 

Then  the  Poor  Farm, — and  the  creature. 

How  happen  he  to  stay  there?  For  the  curious 
reason, — while  the  creature  live,  the  voice  no  longer 
command,  no  longer  reproach  him. 

He  knows  himself  greatly  more  clearly,  since  last 
he  awaken.  He  declares :  "  It  is  my  father's  business, 
— to  serve.  I  serve  Sam  Jackson.  The  voice  was  still. 
Rest  in  serving." 

So  much  he  have  been  near  to  discern  before.  Es- 
pecially, the  day  he  visit  the  bishop.  That  day  he 
was  almost  grasp  himself,  what  he  mean.  But  the 
bishop  put  him  off,  so  that  he  go  away  in  confusion. 

Also  with  the  Jesuits.  He  would  become  a  Jesuit. 
In  the  purpose  was  peace.  But  presently  the  night 
fell  on  him. 

Singular ! 

Never  night  so  black.  He  will  recall  all  else, — it  is 
still  lost  to  him  how  that  night  came.  He  was  in  a 
vast  crowd  of  persons,  Father  Peter  hovered  over 
him,  on  black  wings,  like  a  bat, — such  the  picture  in 


164  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

his  memory.     He  shivers.     He  much  would  wish  not 
to  think  of  it. 

He  is  full  of  his  meaning.  He  will  explain  to  me 
volubly.  I  lose  myself  in  amazement  for  his  manner. 
His  idea,  it  reaches  me  not. 

1 1  of  December. 

His  idea,  do  I  comprehend  this,  even  yet?  If  I 
comprehend  the  idea  of  the  boy,  that  which  he  medi- 
tates is,  in  brief,  revolution. 

The  idea  was  born  an  instinct, — it  was  the  voice 
which  he  heard,  vaguely  to  command  him,  to  reproach 
him.  But  now,  since  he  awakens,  he  will  examine 
his  instinct,  to  construct  of  it  the  idea. 

He  fancies  he  will  justify,  will  by  the  letter  of  the 
Scripture  discover  his  idea  to  be  right. 

He  argues :  "  Will  you  accuse  Jesus  of  teaching 
two  moralities  ?  " 

Two  moralities,  then.  Consider!  Morality  No.  I, 
and  Morality  No.  2,  so  to  speak. 

First,  Morality  No.  i.  This  is  taught  in  the  parable 
of  the  Good  Samaritan. 

Jacques  insists :  "  In  the  parable  of  the  Good  Samar- 
itan, Jesus  informs  the  lawyer  it  is  enough  if  he  will 
love  his  neighbor  as  he  loves  himself.  Does  he  not?  " 

I  bow.    For  when  I  read  the  parable,  it  is  so. 

Very  well!  But  wait, — there  is  yet  the  Morality 
No.  2.  This  is  taught  in  the  passage  of  St.  John 
(inter  alia)  where  Jesus  say:  "Follow  me!" 

To  follow  Jesus,  what  is  it  ? 

Jacques  cries :  "  It  is  to  love  your  neighbor  better, 
a  great  deal  better,  than  you  love  yourself!  Jesus 
was  all  for  his  neighbor.  For  himself  he  was  noth- 
ing." 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  165 

What  then?    Listen, — the  idea  of  the  boy  is  here. 

Jacques  :  "  Nevertheless,  no !  Jesus  taught  one  mor- 
ality, no  more.  If  you  would  be  moral,  follow  the 
Good  Samaritan.  But  if  you  would  be  a  disciple, 
a  minister  in  Jesus,  follow  Jesus.  To  follow  Jesus, 
that  would  make  you  not  more  moral,  but  it  would 
make  you  a  pastor,  a  shepherd  to  feed  the  sheep." 

He  will  impose  upon  the  minister,  then,  the  especial 
sacrifice  ?  Precisely. 

But  here  I  ask  him :  "  To  what  end,  my  boy  ?  Why 
make  the  clergy  go  more  far  than  the  laity  ?  " 

To  which  he  make  me  answer :  "  Bishop  Welcome 
followed  Jesus.  He  was  more  than  to  love  his  neigh- 
bor as  himself.  He  love  himself  not,  his  neighbor 
all.  What  happen  ?  A  soul  is  saved,  namely,  the  soul 
of  Jean  Valjean.  Do  you  deny?" 

I  smile.    I  say :  "  It  is  a  romance !  " 

He  reply :  "  Be  it  so.  But  fancy  yourself  to  meet 
Bishop  Welcome,  to  see  him,  to  speak  with  him, — 
how  will  you  not  be  affected,  how  will  you  not  be 
better?  Merely  to  read  about  him,  is  it  not  to  make 
you  more  full  of  goodness,  of  good  will  ?  " 

True !  I  will  myself,  at  times,  when  bitterness  shall 
be  in  me,  take  up  the  book,  to  read  of  the  good  bishop, 
and  behold!  the  bitterness  have  gone  before  I  am 
aware. 

Jacques :  "  In  such  he  follow  Jesus.  He  could  be 
moral,  yet  do  less.  But  he  follow  Jesus." 

Furthermore : 

"  Whoever  shall  do  in  a  like  manner,  he  also  shall 
make  goodness  to  enter  the  hearts  of  men." 


1 66  Dr.  Robert's  Diary 

25  of  December. 

For  unto  them  there  was  born  this  day,  in  the  city 
of  David,  a  King! 

Much  have  we  spoken.  Do  I  grasp  what  my  boy 
will  mean? 

I  venture :  "  The  Church  teaches  Jesus  to  mean 
every  man  to  be  his  disciple,  every  man  to  follow 
him.  What  better  will  you  have  ?  " 

But  no!  He  open  the  gospel  of  St.  Luke,  who 
heard  Jesus  say:  "If  any  man  come  to  me  and  hate 
not  his  father,  and  mother,  and  children,  and  brother 
and  sister,  yea,  and  his  own  life,  also,  he  cannot  be  my 
disciple." 

He  demands :  "  If  every  man  be  so,  what  will  be- 
come of  society,  of  the  progress  of  the  race,  of  civil- 
ization? Whoever  will  be  the  disciple  of  Jesus,  he  is 
command  to  be  empty  of  all  selfishness, — not  a  part, 
but  all.  But  with  selfishness  begin  our  progress.  It 
is  the  spring  of  our  civilization.  Without  it  all  should 
be  upset.  No,  no!  Only  the  few  shall  be  empty  of 
this, — the  few  chosen  to  be  ministers." 

Somewhat  so  he  argues.  If  not  his  words,  it  is  the 
sum  of  what  he  will  propose,  I  should  surmise. 

Perplexing,  to  me.  I  inquire :  "  To  what  end  ? 
If  the  selfishness  shall  be  the  beginning  of  progress, 
the  spring  of  the  civilization,  why  shall  it  be  emptied 
out  of  any,  even  of  the  chosen  ones  ?  " 

His  reply,  in  effect :  "  The  few  are  sacrifice  for  the 
good  of  the  many,  even  as  Jesus  was.  As  did  he, 
so  will  they,  crucify  the  self,  in  order  that  the  self 
in  others  shall  be  subdue." 

Myself :  "  But  since  selfishness  is  so  admirable,  be- 
ing the  spring  of  the  civilization,  wherefore  shall  you 
subdue  it  ?  " 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  167 

Jacques :  "  Like  the  wild  horse  which  needs  to  be 
break,  to  have  the  rein.  The  good  minister,  who 
shall  follow  Jesus,  he  put  in  the  hand  of  men  the 
rein,  for  to  check  the  selfishness." 

I  am  silent.  If  I  do  not  grasp,  it  is  perhaps  not 
wonderful.  Who  shall  grasp  this  boy? 

Now  he  opens  a  book.  It  is  the  essays  of  the  Eng- 
lishman, Matthew  Arnold.  There  is  something  con- 
cerning St.  Francis, — his  celebrated  marriage  with 
poverty. 

Jacques :  "  He  crucified  the  self,  by  that.  What  did 
he  gain?  " 

He  will  read  from  the  book :  "  When  an  Umbrian 
town  or  village  heard  of  his  approach,  the  whole  pop- 
ulation went  out  in  joyful  procession  to  meet  him, 
with  green  boughs,  flags,  music,  &  the  songs  of  glad- 
ness." 

Together  with  a  passage  which  say  of  St.  Francis : 

"  He  was  a  figure  of  the  most  magical  power  & 
charm." 

Jacques  declares :  "  Magical  ?  Not !  Natural !  Any 
man  who  shall  do  as  St.  Francis  have  done,  he  too 
shall  have  precisely  the  power  &  the  charm.  What 
have -St.  Francis  done?  Briefly,  he  has  follow  Jesus, 
— =110  more,  no  less.  He  crucify  the  self." 

Once  more,  from  that  book,  he  will  read :  "  The 
mass  of  mankind  can  be  carried  along  a  course  full 
of  hardship  for  the  natural  man,  can  be  borne  over 
the  thousand  impediments  of  the  narrow  way,  only 
by  the  tide  of  a  joyful  &  bounding  emotion." 

Jacques,  exclaiming :  "  Emotion,  joyful  &  bound- 
ing! That  it  is.  To  teach  his  ministers  how  to  give 
mankind  that  emotion,  Jesus  came  on  earth.  For 


1 68  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

such  the  word  was  made  flesh, — &  the  word  was  '  Fol- 
low me!'" 

I  am  silent.     Do  I  grasp  him? 

1 6  of  January. 

This,  at  least,  is  clear, — he  will  break  with  tradi- 
tion. Is  such  the  wise  part? 

I  propose :  "  You  break  abruptly  with  tradition. 
Tradition  shall  be  against  you.  Tradition  is  power. 
You  shall  not  sweep  it  away.  You  shall  better  com- 
promise with  it." 

He  is  not  for  the  compromise.  So  much  I  see, 
though  he  say  nothing. 

Myself :  "  The  half  loaf  is  better  than  none.  You 
will  fly  in  the  face  of  accepted  notion.  What  is  re- 
ligion, to  the  common  mind  ?  It  is  precisely  worship, 
the  ceremony.  You  make  nothing  of  worship  and  of 
ceremony.  What  shall  the  ordinary  man  say  of  you, 
thereupon  ?  Precisely  that  you  have  no  religion  what- 
ever. Who  shall  grasp  you,  when  you  call  for  no 
faith,  no  duties,  no  conscious  obedience  to  a  law, — 
when,  in  brief,  you  leave  all  things  to  be  wrought  by 
a  love  coming  into  the  heart  no  man  know  whence 
or  know  how  ?  " 

Jacques :  "  The  ordinary  man  has  no  need  to  know. 
All  is  done  for  him.  Only  the  minister  need  know, 
since  he  does  all.  I  shall  teach  the  minister.  Him 
will  I  recall  to  the  more  excellent  way." 

Myself,  with  impatience :  "  The  bishop  in  the  city, 
did  you  teach  him?" 

He  is  silent. 

Myself :  "  He  make  answer  to  you  for  why  he  live 
in  a  palace  &  ride  in  his  coach.  These  things  shall 
be  customary.  It  is  so.  Custom  is  everything.  It 


Dr.   Robert's  Diary  169 

is  so  much  that  he  will  always  believe  you  a  madman. 
There  is  no  teaching  in  such  manner." 

Jacques :  "  I  was  not  myself  sure.  Vision  was  not 
yet  come  to  me.  I  will  do  better." 

"  No,  never!  "  I  declare. 

But  now,  finally,  I  broach  the  good  Bishop  Wel- 
come : 

"  Did  he  throw  tradition  to  the  wind  ?  Not  he. 
He  did  the  customary, — all  that  which  a  minister  shall 
be  expected  to  do.  He  is  ready  to  yield  the  half  of  a 
loaf  for  getting  the  remainder.  He  celebrate  the  mass 
each  day,  though  he  may  well  believe  it  mummery. 
He  preach  the  sermon,  though  they  shall  have  sound 
in  his  own  ear  like  the  brass  and  the  cymbal.  He 
pray, — why  not?  It  may  do  no  harm,  at  all  events. 
He  hear  confession, — he  give  absolution,  all  the  while 
in  doubt  if  he  have  the  power  to  bind  and  to  loose. 
He  make  himself  a  minister  in  the  old  way, — after 
that  in  the  more  excellent  way  of  which  you  speak. 
Not  by  the  mass  did  he  save  Jean  Valjean, — cer- 
tainly no.  Yet  why  shall  he  despise  the  mass,  the  most 
ancient  of  ceremony,  the  most  honored  among  men? 
If  it  shall  be  empty,  useless,  what  harm?  What  have 
he  show  you?  That  one  may  be  a  bishop,  yet  deny 
himself  &  take  up  his  cross  daily,  even  as  Jesus  com- 
manded. Go  thou  &  do  in  a  like  fashion." 

What  do  I  mean?  Precisely  that  he  shall  first 
of  all  become  a  minister  in  the  accepted  sense,  one 
known  as  a  minister,  one  whom  the  world  will  call 
Reverend.  By  this  he  will  come  in  a  position  to  ex- 
emplify his  idea. 

He  wavers.  Whatso  Bishop  Welcome  have  done, 
that  is  much  to  him. 

Yet  he  thinks  of  going  back  to  the  city,  as  formerly. 


170  Dr.   Robert's  Diary 

He  says :  "  I  will  seek  out  Father  Peter.    Him  I  shall 
persuade." 

The  oath-bound  Jesuit  ?    Not  likely ! 

3  of  March. 

A  letter  from  the  Esquire  Thornhill  permits  hope. 
Mr.  Thornhill  deems  it  possible. 

The  church  is  Unitarian,  once  strong,  now  weak, 
and  no  settled  pastor  is  over  it. 

The  Unitarians  make  no  nice  points, — any  strong, 
clean,  leading  man,  say  the  esquire. 

Well,  as  to  that,  Jacques  is  strong,  he  is  clean,  he 
is  leading. 

He  have  consent.  The  necessity  to  think  of  cus- 
tom, he  perceives  this.  The  Unitarian  will  demand 
no  mass,  no  confession, — it  is  more  easy  for  him 
than  for  Bishop  Welcome. 


BOOK  V 
MR.  JAKES 


CHAPTER  I 

DINNER  OF  HERBS 

INDULGE  a  pagan  fancy, — it  will  help  you  to  a  no- 
tion of  Afton.  Figure  life  as  a  pool,  and  events  as 
stones  tossed  thereinto  by  the  Fates.  Wherever  in  the 
pool  a  stone  drops,  there  is  a  heaving  up  to  send  waves 
spreading  in  every  direction.  The  bigger  the  stone 
the  more  the  upheaval,  of  course,  and  the  stronger  the 
waves  go  out;  but  even  the  biggest  of  stones  will  not 
stir  all  life.  No  matter  how  high  the  waters  are 
raised  in  the  first  instance,  they  will  shortly  subside. 
Only  a  little  way  off,  and  the  impulse  is  already  well 
spent.  Only  a  little  further,  and  the  face  of  the 
pool  is  unrippled. 

There  are  places  in  the  pool  where  no  stone  to 
speak  of  has  ever  fallen,  and  where  there  have  come 
from  abroad  but  the  faintest  shocks  and  thrills. 

Afton  was  one  of  these, — very  much  so. 

Languid  infirmity  of  purpose,  that  was  the  prevail- 
ing note, — you  caught  it  even  in  the  attitude  of  the 
two  roads  which  conjointly  gave  Afton  locality,  for 
they  seemed  to  have  been  about  to  cross  only  to  aban- 
don the  enterprise  at  the  last  moment  in  favor  of  an 
easier  alternative.  Anyway,  one  of  them  came  to  an 
end  on  the  spot,  as  if  it  were  positively  too  shiftless 
to  go  on.  This  was  the  Tellerville  road,  too,  and  by 

'73 


174  Mr.  Jakes 

that  important.  Tellerville,  six  miles  away,  was  the 
nearest  railway  station  and  the  way  thence  was  Al- 
ton's outlook  on  the  world.  And  still  there  was  a 
dignity  about  its  manner  of  giving  up  separate  exis- 
tence, like  a  great  river  disemboguing,  in  two  branches, 
with  a  delta  between,  to  form  the  civic  center  about 
which  the  village  gathered  in  a  loose  and  informal 
manner.  Nobody  called  it  the  civic  center, — locally 
it  was  but  a  patch  of  nettles  so  stalwart  that  the  birds 
of  the  air  built  nests  in  them ;  but  it  amounted  to  that, 
— it  would  be  a  civic  center  wherever  sociology  and 
its  terms  were  understood.  The  corporate  limits  com- 
prehended a  square  mile,  more  or  less,  and  in  a  negli- 
gent, sprawling  fashion  the  inhabitants  occupied  so 
much  territory.  There  was  plenty  of  room, — each 
house  had  its  garden  and  there  were  detached  fields 
besides,  not  to  mention  stretches  of  commons  where 
everybody  staked  out  his  cow. 

A  hot,  dry  spring  it  has  been, — the  like  of  it  never 
known.  And  to-day  is  a  hot  dry  day ;  already,  though 
the  hour  is  early,  the  sun  is  fierce  and  Afton  sim- 
mers. In  the  postoffice  fronting  the  delta  Byron  the 
postmaster  and  Daniel  the  pensioner  are  a-discussin' 
and  a-contendin'.  They  are  alone, — the  population 
at  large  is  still  detained  at  home. 

You  should  know  more  about  Daniel,  partly  for  his 
own  sake,  but  especially  for  the  further  notion  of 
Afton  you  will  obtain.  On  that  consideration  it  is 
noteworthy  that  Daniel  had  lost  his  right  arm  in  the 
service  of  his  country;  that  the  republic,  flatly  contra- 
dicting the  proverbial  nature  of  its  kind,  was  so  grate- 
ful as  to  remember  him  with  a  check  for  $150  every 
quarter;  and,  finally,  that  such  an  income  settled  and 
secure  in  virtue  of  Uncle  Sam's  good  word,  consti- 


Dinner  of  Herbs  175 

tuted  Daniel,  in  a  financial  sense,  the  great  man  of 
the  vicinity.  Nobody  else  had  so  large  an  income. 
Squire  Thornhill  would  no  doubt  wish  the  world  to 
believe  him  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  larger,  but  the  world 
was  not  to  be  beguiled  by  mere  hints  to  that  effect. 
Who  ever  saw  Squire  Thornhill  with  as  much  as 
$150,  cash  money,  in  his  hand?  Who,  furthermore, 
did  not  know,  or  as  good  as  know,  that  Squire  Thorn- 
hill  was  land  poor,  that  his  taxes  were  eating  him  up, 
that  there  was  a  mortgage  on  his  very  home?  Let 
those  who  chose  believe  a  mortgage  the  sign  of  fiscal 
tact, — Afton,  at  all  events,  would  swallow  no  such 
heresy ;  the  village  recognized  its  magnate,  and  he  was 
Daniel.  Respected?  Daniel's  arm  had  been  shattered 
by  a  ball  which  caught  him  at  the  point  of  the  elbow, 
and  you  and  I,  being  strangers,  might  wonder,  for  a 
moment,  how  a  man  facing  the  enemy  could  get  a  shot 
at  the  point  of  his  elbow;  but  Afton  found  no  diffi- 
culty. Not  a  man  or  a  boy  was  there  who  couldn't 
tell  us  the  way  of  it,  how  that  Daniel,  charging  gal- 
lantly at  Antietam,  felt  something  wrong  with  his 
collar  behind,  reached  back  over  his  head  to  fix  the 
thing,  and  in  that  posture  was  shot.  If  you  saw  a 
man  or  a  boy,  in  Afton,  earnestly  conversing  with 
some  stranger,  the  while  he  reached  over  his  head 
for  his  collar  behind,  the  chances  were  that  he  had 
undertaken  to  show  just  how  Daniel  came  by  his 
wound.  It  was  worth  while, — the  patriot's  credit  was 
a  public  concern,  a  matter  vital  to  the  commonwealth ; 
nobody  should  go  away  doubting  that  the  pension 
which  made  Afton  opulent  was  well  and  truly  earned. 
For  some  minutes,  now,  this  considerable  man  had 
sat  silent  in  the  doorway,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
delta  opposite.  The  sun  poured  itself  brilliantly  over 


176  Mr.  Jakes 

the  white  sand  of  the  street,  and  Daniel  screwed  up 
his  face  prodigiously  against  the  glare. 

At  length  he  spoke.  "  Notice  how  that  there  patch 
o'  nettles  hain't  a-startin'  up  so  pert  this  spring? 

Byron  hadn't  noticed,  no, — that  is,  not  special. 

Daniel  went  on,  weightily,  after  a  suggestive  pause. 
"  If  that  there  patch  o'  nettles  hain't  smaller'n  'twas 
this  time  a  year  ago,  then  I'm  a  goat." 

Delicately  put,  to  be  sure.  Before  he  made  choice 
between  these  alternatives,  a  man  who  was  not  only 
postmaster  with  various  political  elements  to  please, 
but  general  storekeeper,  as  well,  with  a  trade  to  think 
of, — such  a  man  need  have  a  care.  Byron  screwed  up 
his  face  and  looked  long  and  critically.  "  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  maybe  you  ain't  right,"  he  remarked. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  demanded  Daniel. 

Byron  coughed.     "  Dry  weather,  eh  ?  " 

"  Dry  weather  your  foot ! "  snorted  Daniel,  con- 
temptuously. "  Dry  weather  might  make  the  nettles 
smaller, — 'twouldn't  never  make  the  patch  smaller. 
Do  you  want  to  know  what  it  means?  It  means  the 
road's  widenin'  out  with  the  traffic.  There's  more 
teams  comin'  in,  an*  they're  comin'  oftener.  That's 
what  it  means.  'Nother  year,"  the  spirit  of  prophecy 
seized  the  oracle,  "  an'  I  shouldn't  be  noways  sur- 
prised if  there  wa'n't  a  nettle  left  over  yonder.  Now 
what  if  Afton  was  to  hev  a  boom, — a  reg'ler,  down- 
right, ripsnortin'  boom !  Hey  ?  " 

Byron  took  time  to  think  and  his  reply  was  guarded. 
"  Don't  know's  I'd  want  to  see  a  reg'ler,  downright, 
ripsnortin'  boom  in  Afton.  Chicago  always  claimed 
they  was  wuss  off  for  the  boom  they  had." 

"  Chicago  hain't  Afton,"  declared  Daniel,  and  with 
that  the  subject  was  exhausted. 


Dinner  of  Herbs  177 

There  ensued  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  hum 
of  some  early  flies.  It  was  a  sleepy  stillness,  and  the 
warmth  was  sleepy,  and  shortly  the  pensioner  dozed 
off,  and  swayed  unsteadily  in  his  seat,  with  his  head 
sunk  on  his  breast.  Byron,  meanwhile,  busied  him- 
self behind  the  counter  till  a  new  vein  of  conversa- 
tion occurred  to  him. 

"  Hear  'bout  Link  Peffer  a-gittin'  him  a  telegram?  " 
he  called  out,  from  the  inner  regions. 

Daniel  opened  his  eyes  with  a  jerk.  "  Link  Peffer?  " 
he  repeated  incredulously. 

"Link  Peffer! 

"You  mean  Abe  Peffer!" 

"  No,  Link, — Abe's  youngest  boy." 

"  Link?    Why,  Link  he  hain't  scurcely  a  voter  yet." 

"  Well,  he  got  the  telegram,  whether  or  no.  I  see  it 
myself.  Tronson  fetched  it  over  from  Tellerville  with 
the  mail,  a  Wednesday,  jest  as  Link  happened  up  with 
his  new  Clyde  stallion,  in  a  sulky.  '  Link,'  says 
Tronson,  '  here's  a  telegram  for  ye.'  '  That  so  ?  '  says 
Link,  not  a  mite  flustered,  an'  he  took  it  an'  opened  it 
an'  read  it,  an  drove  off  cool's  you  please,  sayin'  never 
a  word  to  nobody,  though  there  was  consid'ble  many 
stan'in'  round,  wonderin'." 

Daniel  listened  attentively.  "  Want  to  know !  "  he 
exclaimed,  when  Byron  had  told  all.  "  Beats  all  how 
the  young  fellers  is  comin'  to  the  front.  Link  was 
always  a  smart  boy,  though.  I  reckon  he's  one  of  the 
virtuousest  young  men  in  these  parts." 

"  Talk  of  him  runnin'  for  sheriff,  come  fall." 

"  No !  He'd  make  a  good  sheriff,  too.  Still,  I 
dunno  what  Eph  Holiday'd  do  if  they  was  to  'lect 
somebody  else  sheriff.  How  long's  Eph  been  sheriff 
anyhow?  Must  be  twenty  years." 


178  Mr.  Jakes 

"  S'  long's  that  ?  Guess  maybe  so,  come  to  think. 
Time  does  git  away.  Blame  me  if  it  don't." 

There  was  no  blaming  Byron  on  that  showing,  and 
so  another  subject  was  exhausted.  The  drowsy  si- 
lence came  on  once  more,  and  once  more  the  pensioner 
was  nodding  off  to  sleep,  when  the  entrance  of  a  third 
person  created  a  fresh  diversion.  Rather  an  unusual 
figure,  this  person  was, — a  youngish  man,  with  flat 
chest  and  broad  shoulders,  a  hatchet  face,  and  (these 
the  especially  unusual  about  him)  lustrous  dark  eyes 
and  a  profusion  of  curling  brown  hair.  His  garb 
was  that  of  a  workingman  rather  hard  pressed  to  make 
both  ends  meet, — nothing  to  single  him  out  in  Afton 
where  distinction  in  dress  was  almost  entirely  left  to 
the  women;  and  his  manner  had  in  it  that  accent  of 
conscious  apology  which  denotes  a  lack  of  social  ad- 
vantages— it  seemed  to  cost  him  an  effort  so  much  as 
to  give  Daniel  and  Byron  good  morning. 

"  Letter  for  you,  I'm  thinkin',"  said  the  postmaster, 
adjusting  his  glasses  to  study  an  address  critically. 
"  The  Reverend  James  J-a-c-q-u-e-s,  Jakes, — that  the 
way  you  pronounce  it  ?  " 

The  man  hesitated  a  little,  smiled  faintly  and  nodded. 
"  That's  my  name.  Thank  you,"  and  he  took  the 
letter  and  turned  to  go. 

Daniel  was  staring  up  in  frank  curiosity.  "  Hot," 
he  said. 

"  Rather,"  said  the  man. 

"  An'  dry." 

"  Pretty  dry,  I  should  say."  There  was  an  accent  in 
his  speech,  and  a  halting,  as  if  the  English  language 
came  hard  to  him. 

"  Don't  'pear  so  anything's  sufferin',  though." 

"Oh,  no!" 


Dinner  of  Herbs  179 

"We  kin  stand  a  dry  spell  better  in  May  than  in 
July.  That's  what  I  tell  'em." 

The  man  replied,  but  he  was  already  out  of  the 
door  and  in  full  retreat,  so  that  his  meaning  was  lost. 
Evidently  he  wasn't  wishful  to  make  talk. 

"  That,"  said  Byron,  when  they  had  watched  him 
out  of  sight,  "  is  the  new  Unitarian  minister." 

"  So  I  was  a-conjecturin',"  said  Daniel.  "  Looks 
like  he  might  be  a  good,  clever  feller,  too.  No  airs, 
anyway.  Queer  fish,  some  say.  They  tell  me  he 
don't  ask  no  pay." 

"  Fact.  My  wife's  half-brother  he  goes  to  church 
there,  an'  he  admits  they  don't  hev  to  pay  Mr.  Jakes 
nothin'.  He  won't  take  no  pay,  as  I  understand." 

"  Reckon  he  hain't  a-goin'  to  have  no  scuffle  with 
'em  on  that  'count,"  observed  Daniel.  "  Last  min- 
ister they  hed  couldn't  git  his  pay  nohow." 

"  That  was  Sanborn." 

"  Sanborn." 

"  Tur'ble  homely  feller.  So  homely  you  couldn't 
scurcely  meet  him  without  wantin'  to  holler  for  help." 
This  was  pretty  severe  for  Byron  and  he  looked  rather 
frightened.  "  Course  a  man  hain't  noways  to  blame 
for  his  looks,"  he  added,  deprecatingly. 

"  They've  got  some  right  smart  womenfolks  in  their 
church,  I'll  say  that  for  'em." 

"  They  hev  so,  for  a  fact." 

"  Nothin'  but  the  womenfolks  kep'  the  buildin'  from 
goin'  to  rack  an'  ruin  long  ago.  The  women  worked 
hard  but  the  men  was  too  shif'less  to  pay  the  parson. 
Guess  they  was  glad  to  find  somebody  to  take  the 
place  for  nothin'." 

"  Squire  Thornhill  speaks  high  of  him." 


180  Mr.  Jakes 

"  That  ought  to  settle  it.  Squire's  the  king-pin, 
'cording  to  his  own  reckoning  anyway." 

"  Squire's  a  great  Unitarian.  He  kin  tell  why  he's 
a  Unitarian,  an'  that's  more'n  some  of  'em  kin  do. 
My  wife's  half-brother  he  calls  himself  a  Unitarian, 
but  he  couldn't  tell  you  what  Unitarians  believe  in, 
not  to  save  his  gizzard."  Who,  even  the  keeper  of 
a  general  store,  need  hesitate  to  have  positive  opin- 
ions of  his  wife's  half-brother? 

"  How's  this  here  Reverend  Mr.  Jakes  a-goin*  to 
live?  "  asked  Daniel.  "  Got  prop'ty,  has  he?  " 

"  'Pears  not.  He's  took  the  Widder  Delmore 
place,  an'  it's  quite  a  spell  now  since  there  was  any- 
body hereabouts  that  didn't  feel  above  the  Widder 
Delmore  place.  Never  was  much,  an'  now  it's  all 
to  pieces.  Old  cabin's  'bout  fell  down,  an'  the  well's 
caved  in,  an'  there  hain't  a  rod  o'  fence  stan'in'. 
Land's  all  run  out,  course.  He  expects  to  make  a 
livin'  outen  it,  but  I  don't  see  how.  Squire  Thornhill 
was  in  to  see  me  yist'day,  an'  he  ast  me  if  I  wouldn't 
trust  Mr.  Jakes  for  what  little  he'd  be  a-wantin',  till 
he  could  git  suthin'  to  growin'.  I'll  own  up  I  wa'n't 
anxious  for  the  trade,  an'  still  I  couldn't  somehow 
come  out  flatfooted  an'  refuse  a  newcomer,  so.  'Sides, 
I  was  brought  up  to  treat  a  minister  a  leetle  better'n 
other  folks.  Course  Mr.  Jakes  is  Unitarian,  an'  my 
folks  was  brimstone  orthodox  an'  hated  a  liberal 
wuss'n  pizen,  but  I  can't  be  a-drawin'  the  line, — a 
minister's  a  minister.  I  do  feel  like  doin'  Mr.  Jakes  a 
good  turn,  when  it  comes  my  way.  He'll  likely  hev 
trouble  'nough  afore  he's  gone  far,  'thout  me  addin' 
to  it.  Blame  me  if  I  don't  feel  kinder  sorry  for  the 
feller,  though  it's  none  o'  my  funeral  either.  Seems 
like  a  hard  place  he's  dropped  into." 


Dinner  of  Herbs  181 

Daniel  laughed  saturninely.  "  Jest  you  wait  till 
the  squire  gits  his  wind  an'  starts  in  to  run  things.  I 
dassay  the  Reverend  Mr.  Jakes  will  wonder  where 
he's  at,  'thout  he's  uncommon  good  at  knucklin'  down." 

This  was  treacherous  ground  and  Byron  would  have 
none  of  it. 

"  An'  all  them  women !  "  said  Daniel.  "  Is  he  mar- 
ried?" 

Byron  understood  not.  Leastways  there  was  noth- 
ing said  about  any  family. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul !  "  exclaimed 
Daniel.  "  Poor  Jakes!"  and  he  laughed  again,  more 
saturninely. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  STRANGER,  AND  THEY  TOOK  HIM  IN 

HUNGER  is  a  large  fact  where  scarcity  prevails,  and 
curiosity,  that  hunger  of  the  spirit,  was  a  large  fact 
in  Afton, — not  unnaturally  the  Unitarian  church,  on 
the  occasion  of  Mr.  Jakes's  inaugural,  sheltered  the 
greatest  congregation  in  its  history.  As  much  as  any- 
body knew  about  the  new  minister,  everybody  knew, 
as  a  matter  of  course;  and  that  was  enough  to  rivet 
public  attention  upon  him.  Those  who  had  set  down 
the  man's  vagaries  to  a  species  of  mild  madness, 
though  they  should  politely  name  it  eccentricity,  could 
discover  a  method  in  it,  when  they  beheld  the  crowd 
which  poured  into  the  old  church  that  Sabbath  morn- 
ing,— had  his  whole  purpose  been  to  bring  wandering 
sheep  gaping  to  his  feet,  he  could  not  possibly  have 
gone  a  better  way  to  work.  Squire  Thornhill  and 
the  lesser  pillars  who  acted  with  him  as  ushers  were 
filled  with  a  great  joy.  They  chuckled  and  rubbed 
their  hands,  in  sober  Sabbath  glee,  while  they  showed 
the  thronging  multitude  to  seats.  Did  they  not  count 
twenty-seven  farmers'  teams  hitched  near  the  church  ? 
There  was  a  rail  provided  for  farmers  to  hitch  to,  and 
it  had  always  been  sufficient,  even  in  the  remote  early 
days  of  prosperity,  yet  now  it  was  all  taken  up  and 

182 


A  Stranger,  and  they  Took  Him  In    183 

still  teams  were  coming.  But  it  was  when  chairs  had 
to  be  fetched  from  nearby  houses  and  set  in  the  aisles, 
that  the  pillars'  cup  ran  over.  They  foresaw  a  won- 
derful revival  of  religion  in  Afton.  They  stood  up, 
themselves,  throughout  the  service,  and  were  mightily 
glad  of  the  necessity. 

But  what  of  Mr.  Jakes  meanwhile?  Was  his  cup 
running  over? 

There  was  a  little  vestry,  or  more  properly,  since 
Unitarians  don't  vest,  a  study, — anyway  a  place  where 
the  pastor  might  lurk  and  wait  until  his  hour  was 
come ;  and  thither  the  new  incumbent  had  betaken  him- 
self long  before  the  earliest  of  the  public  put  in  an 
appearance.  But  if  there  was  any  joy  for  him,  it  lay 
under  too  heavy  a  cloud  of  anxiety  to  be  discernible. 
He  was  vastly  uneasy, — roved  up  and  down  the  nar- 
row room,  sat  down  to  the  table,  where  his  papers  and 
a  book  or  two  lay,  only  to  toss  and  squirm  as  if  the 
chair  were  a  hot  griddle.  When  the  congregation 
came  in,  stragglingly  at  first,  but  soon  in  a  steady, 
abundant  stream,  his  distress  mounted  by  leaps  and 
bounds,  as  his  tortured  air  bore  all  too  ample  testi- 
mony. He  opened  the  door  leading  into  the  church 
until  he  could  see  through  the  crack,  and  he  stood  in 
behind  there,  to  peep  furtively,  while  his  knees  smote 
together  and  the  sweat  collected  on  his  forehead.  The 
strange  faces,  staring  blankly  up  at  the  pulpit  where 
he  was  presently  to  take  his  place,  how  should  he  ever 
summon  strength  to  look  into  them?  Mr.  Jakes  was 
very  badly  scared, — that  was  the  simple  truth.  That 
consciousness  of  himself  which  he  had  been  coming 
into  all  these  months  was  discovering  its  least  com- 
fortable phase,  a  bashfulness  almost  too  much  for 
will  and  reason  to  overbear. 


184  Mr.  Jakes 

He  sank  into  his  seat  and  clutched  up  a  scrap  of 
paper,  on  which  were  written,  in  Dr.  Robert's  largest, 
plainest  hand,  these  words  and  figures : 

1.  Hymn. 

2.  Prayer. 

3.  Hymn. 

4.  Sermon. 
'5.  Hymn. 

6.  Benediction. 

It  was  the  simple  program  of  the  simplest  service 
which  convention  would  countenance,  and  yet  it  baffled 
Mr.  Jakes.  He  conned  it  over  for  the  hundredth  time, 
and  was  no  nearer  mastering  it  than  before,  trifling 
though  it  was.  And  then,  for  the  hundredth  time,  a 
rebellion  rose  in  him.  Why  should  he  have  a 
program?  Why  should  he  be  tied  down  to  any  sort 
of  form,  even  the  simplest?  He  had  been  pointed  to 
Savonarola,  who  was  a  great  preacher,  fit  to  be 
imitated.  But  Savonarola  had  gone  his  own  way  about 
the  business,  flouting  custom,  and  ceremony,  and  pro- 
grams, delivering  his  message  as  best  it  suited  him. 
Mr.  Jakes  had  a  message,  too, — why  should  he  not  go 
his  own  way  about  the  delivery  of  it?  Those  people 
yonder,  they  were  nothing  to  fear,  in  themselves, 
met  with  informally;  but  there  was  something  very 
terrifying  about  them  as  they  sat  stiffly  awaiting  his 
coming.  It  was  like  going  up  to  the  rack,  wretchedly 
like.  Mr.  Jakes  threw  the  scrap  of  paper  back  on  the 
table  and  groaned. 

The  study  was  furnished  with  a  cheap  little  clock 
which  ticked  explosively, — Mr.  Jakes  could  swear  it 
was  going  too  fast.  He  could  see  the  hands  move, 
so  ardent  was  his  wish  to  have  them  stand  still;  as 


A  Stranger,  and  they  Took  Him  In  185 

they  approached  the  fateful  mark  of  half  past  ten,  they 
fairly  ran  forward.  He  persuaded  himself  that  the 
little  clock  was  at  least  fifteen  minutes  ahead  of  the 
correct  time,  and  had  just  formed  the  resolution  to 
wait  until  quarter  of  eleven  when  his  comfortable  illu- 
sion was  miserably  scattered  by  the  bell  in  the  Catholic 
steeple,  booming  out  its  solemn  call.  That  meant  only 
one  thing, — it  was  already  half  past  ten!  The  hour 
had  struck,  and  no  more  was  to  be  done  save  that  which 
he  had  come  to  do.  He  staggered  to  his  feet.  He 
snatched  up  his  papers  and  books.  He  threw  open 
the  door.  He  entered. 

Curiosity  isn't  of  necessity  an  unfriendly  senti- 
ment, yet  neither  is  it  sweet  sympathy ;  Af ton,  or  that 
considerable  fraction  of  it  which  had  come  out  for  to 
see,  turned  its  countenance  on  Mr.  Jakes  with  the  first 
creak  of  the  door  which  announced  him,  and  it  was  a 
countenance  little  calculated  to  soothe  his  troubled 
heart,  already  near  choking  him  with  a  tumult  of 
emotion.  To  him  it  seemed  that  he  spent  his  last 
strength  in  tottering  up  the  few  steps  leading  to  the 
pulpit,  and  he  fell  into  the  stuffed  chair  set  out  for  his 
use  in  a  state  bordering  on  collapse.  He  had  been 
earnestly  instructed  to  kneel,  for  a  moment,  in  silent 
prayer,  as  he  entered  his  pulpit;  Dr.  Robert  had  once 
seen  a  famous  divine  do  that,  and  it  had  struck  him  as 
a  happy  touch, — theatrical,  perhaps,  but  highly  effec- 
tive, a  thing  likely  to  disarm  the  critical  and  warm  the 
devout,  to  affect  for  the  better  both  those  who  came 
to  scoff  and  those  who  came  to  pray.  Mr.  Jakes  had 
no  objection,  and  he  had  fully  intended  to  kneel,  that 
way,  but  he  forgot  all  about  it  until  the  proper  time 
was  passed.  Then  the  thought  of  his  omission  brought 
on  a  new  terror.  If  he  had  forgotten  that,  what  might 


1 86  Mr.  Jakes 

he  not  forget?  Sitting  sunk  among  the  cushions,  he 
gave  himself  up  to  despair. 

He  imagined  he  was  making  a  sorry  spectacle,  but 
in  that  he  was  wrong, — the  people  beheld  a  youth  not 
more  embarrassed  than  a  youth  may  properly  be,  in  the 
face  of  a  great  occasion.  He  believed  he  had  reeled  up 
the  steps  like  a  drunken  man,  but  they  found  his  gait 
creditably  firm.  His  thought  was  that  his  face  pro- 
claimed his  weakness,  but  they  detected  only  a  comely 
heightening  of  his  color,  a  comely  glow  in  his  eyes. 
Mr.  Jakes's  eyes  were  something  to  remember,  so  fine 
and  lustrous  were  they,  so  filled  with  a  steady  fire ;  and 
there  was  moreover  his  hair.  Afton,  for  the  most 
part,  had  not  yet  seen  him  with  his  hat  off,  and  the 
wanton  clustering  curls,  thick  and  golden-brown,  were 
something  to  remember,  too.  Many  called  him  hand- 
some. 

His  attire, — well,  for  that  matter,  Afton,  to  be  per- 
fectly candid,  was  rather  shocked  by  Mr.  Jakes's  attire. 
It  was  still  that  garb  of  a  man  who  worked  with  his 
hands.  Linen,  starch, — could  there  be  theology  apart 
from  these?  The  memory  of  the  ministers  who  had 
formerly  stood  in  that  pulpit  had  not  passed  away,  and 
how  had  they  dressed  for  their  part?  Even  that  last 
unhappy  minister,  whose  salary  was  only  $30  a  month 
and  the  bulk  of  that  meager  sum  delinquent, — even  he 
wore  a  long  black  coat  with  flaring  skirts  and  spread- 
ing bosom  faced  with  silk  at  the  lapels,  and  a  linen 
shirt,  and  a  lawn  tie.  And  here  had  come  a  minister  in 
a  coarse  gray  flannel  shirt,  with  a  coat  which  was  a 
blouse,  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  a  jumper,  and 
trousers  which  looked  for  all  the  world  like  kersey  such 
as  Byron  sold  for  $3  and  you  could  get  for  $2  in  the 
city.  And  his  shoes,  would  you  believe  that  they  were 


A  Stranger,  and  they  Took  Him  In  187 

not  blacked?  Believe  it  or  not,  such  was  the  fact. 
They  were  very  conspicuous  by  reason  of  their  brown 
dinginess.  Stewing  among  his  cushions,  Mr.  Jakes 
mechanically  threw  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  by  that 
fairly  flaunted  his  shoes  in  Afton's  face.  It  was  a 
long  day  before  the  circles  of  society  ceased  to  com- 
ment on  those  shoes. 

Stewing  among  his  cushions,  Mr.  Jakes  looked 
down  at  the  people  and  asked  himself  whether  they 
would  leave  him  sunk  in  his  chair  and  go  away,  or 
whether  they  would  come  and  lift  him  out ;  it  was  im- 
possible, he  was  convinced,  that  he  should  rise  unaided. 
But  once  more  he  was  wrong.  The  choir,  a  dozen  or 
fifteen  boys  and  girls,  were  gathered  about  the  organ 
to  the  left  of  the  pulpit,  and  now  the  leader,  a  dapper 
person  of  the  tenor  species,  came  tripping  up  the  steps 
with  his  list  of  hymns.  He  bowed  deferentially,  and 
Mr.  Jakes,  while  he  didn't  bow  back,  from  a  feeling  of 
being  frozen  stiff,  nevertheless  received  him  with  what 
passed  for  dignity  and  grace  sufficient,  and  took  the  slip 
of  paper  from  his  hand.  The  congregation  watched 
narrowly  and  came  off  with  the  impression  that  the 
new  minister  knew  his  manners, — he  lost  nothing  by 
not  being  gushy.  And  then  Mr.  Jakes  astonished  him- 
self alone  of  all  that  assemblage  by  getting  up  and 
going  to  the  desk  and  giving  out  the  first  hymn.  He 
remained  standing  there  during  the  singing,  and  even 
joined  in,  though  the  tune  was  unfamiliar. 

But  hereupon  there  was  the  prayer  to  be  offered  up. 
That  was  about  the  hardest  of  all.  Commanded  of 
convention  to  pray,  he  had  suffered  a  prayer  to  be  com- 
posed for  him,  and  had  learned  it  by  heart.  He  fancied 
he  knew  it  well  enough  to  say  it  backwards,  yet  now, 
in  the  very  midst  of  it,  his  memory  played  him  false. 


1 88  Mr.  Jakes 

He  had  got  so  far  as  to  call  down  the  divine  favor  on 
the  nation,  and  all  nations,  and  the  rulers  thereof,  and 
the  next  thing  was  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  always  to  be 
given  attention  in  a  farming  community, — and  right 
there,  all  at  once,  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
flowery  sentences  with  which  he  was  to  end.  Of 
course  it  would  never  do  to  end  so  abruptly.  He 
paused,  and  repeated  himself,  a  phrase  or  two.  He 
opened  his  eyes  a  little  and  searched  among  the  papers 
on  the  desk  before  him, — the  prayer  was  there,  written 
out  against  the  chance  of  just  such  a  mishap.  What 
possessed  the  paper  that  it  should  so  refuse  to  be 
brought  to  the  surface  when  wanted?  He  bowed  his 
head  very  low,  to  search  the  better.  His  voice,  re- 
peating, shook.  His  knees  weakened  under  him  till  he 
wondered  to  find  himself  standing.  But  Afton,  glanc- 
ing discreetly  out  from  under  its  lowered  lids,  attrib- 
uted everything  to  Mr.  Jakes's  earnestness  having 
overcome  him.  Beautiful  prayer,  people  called  it  ever 
after ;  and  the  break  served  only  to  heighten  the  effect. 
For  it  was  merely  a  break,  at  worst, — the  right  paper 
was  presently  found  and  the  prayer  finished  according 
to  the  letter  of  it. 

They  sang  another  hymn,  hearty  and  uplifting,  and 
after  that  came  the  sermon. 

Mr.  Jakes  took  his  text  from  John  15  113.  "  Greater 
love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his 
life  for  his  friends." 

Alone  in  his  cabin  miles  away,  Dr.  Robert  was  not 
unmindful.  He  too  had  watched  the  clock  uneasily, 
with  a  tumult  of  anxiety  oppressing  him  when  at  last 
it  pointed  to  half  past  ten.  He  too  paced  up  and  down, 
or  squirmed  and  tossed  in  his  chair,  and  hoped, — 
prayed,  even,  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  fervid  soul, 


A  Stranger,  and  they  Took  Him  In    189 

that  his  boy  might  not  forget ;  that  he  might  not  stand 
here  when  he  should  stand  there,  or  strike  his  desk 
with  his  clenched  fist  when  he  should  be  spreading  his 
palm  upward,  or  shout  when  he  should  whisper.  Could 
the  doctor  have  known  that  Mr.  Jakes  forgot  almost  all 
his  instructions,  even  to  the  words  of  his  manuscript 
in  many  instances,  doubt  not  he  would  have  torn  his 
hair,  believing  all  was  lost.  Yet  nothing  was  lost. 

Mr.  Jakes  had  by  his  manner,  though  unwittingly, 
much  increased  the  public  curiosity  as  to  what  he  might 
be  about  to  say;  and  this  would  make  people  atten- 
tive to  begin  with.  But  when  curiosity  should  be 
spent,  what?  The  leaven  of  the  Pharisees  which  is 
hypocrisy  has  a  fashion  of  flowering  in  the  fine  art  of 
seeming  to  listen,  of  having  ears  yet  hearing  not, — and 
in  that  art  men  and  women  who  go  much  to  church 
become  very  adept.  But  the  sensitive  preacher  is  not 
fooled, — he  will  look  into  the  souls  of  his  congregation 
through  their  eyes  and  know  if  those  souls  are  dozing; 
and  if  they  are  dozing  he  will  be  cast  down  and  say 
his  say  but  hardly.  Mr.  Jakes,  most  sensitive  of  men, 
most  ready  to  be  cast  down,  was  spared.  He  looked 
through  the  windows  of  Afton's  souls  and  they  were 
awake  from  first  to  last.  The  curiosity  helped,  but 
when  it  had  served,  there  was  a  better  sentiment  to  take 
its  place.  He  hadn't  gone  far  with  his  sermon  until  it 
appeared  that  the  people  had  been  laid  hold  of. 

And  their  listening  attitude  laid  hold  of  him.  He 
was  lucky  to  be  sensitive,  for  in  virtue  of  that  he  was 
lifted  up  into  a  complete  forgetfulness  of  studied 
posturings.  There  was  a  moment  of  stiff  indecision,  a 
little  of  struggle  to  recall  his  cues,  and  then  he  threw  off 
the  make-believe  altogether.  The  bashfulness  van- 
ished,— he  not  only  looked  but  was  at  ease.  He  spoke 


190  Mr.  Jakes 

like  a  confident  child,  anyway  as  unaffectedly ;  and  like 
a  child's  by  its  sheer  simplicity,  his  discourse  carried. 
The  people,  by  their  interest,  made  him  sincere,  and  he, 
by  his  sincerity,  made  them  interested. 


CHAPTER  III 

MR.  JAKES'S  PARABLE 

"  ONCE  upon  a  time,  and  not  so  long  ago,"  said  Mr. 
Jakes,  and  his  speech,  for  this  occasion,  was  uncom- 
monly free  from  French  accent  and  French  inver- 
sions, "  there  lived,  and  died,  for  it  is  only  as  he  dies 
that  we  get  to  know  him,  a  certain  William  Phipps. 
He  was  a  negro,  a  lowly  member  of  a  lowly  race. 
Many  have  thought,  and  some  still  think  that  the 
negro  was  created  to  be  the  slave  of  the  white  man, 
but  whether  that  is  so  or  not,  negroes  have  always  been 
slaves,  even  to  our  own  time;  for  though  the  name  of 
slavery  is  abolished,  its  substance  remains, — the  posi- 
tion of  negroes  in  society  is  little  if  any  above  servi- 
tude. What  we  have  done  to  make  an  end  of  slavery 
we  seemingly  did  for  the  good  of  the  whites  whom  it 
corrupted,  rather  than  the  good  of  the  blacks  whom  it 
oppressed.  In  some  ways  the  negro  is  worse  off  for 
being  emancipated, — no  emancipation  at  the  hands  of 
the  law  can  relieve  him  of  the  yoke  of  caste.  He  is  still 
the  hewer  of  wood  and  drawer  of  water.  He  is  pro- 
scribed and  excluded  from  the  fields  of  activity  where 
the  human  soul  develops  and  grows,  and  that  is  the 
hopelessness  of  his  situation.  It  is  a  sorry  thing  to  be 
born  black;  a  man  born  black  has  reason,  humanly 
speaking,  to  grow  up  bitter  in  heart,  and  sour,  and 

191 


192  Mr.  Jakes 

sullen.  He  is  confronted  from  the  first  by  a  dark  out- 
look. His  place  in  the  world  is  made  for  him  and  it  is 
a  hard  place.  He  feels  the  supremest  injustice  which 
a  man  is  ever  called  on  to  endure, — the  injustice  of  be- 
ing punished  for  what  is  no  fault  of  his.  And  the 
punishment  has  none  of  the  appearance  of  being  an 
act  of  Providence,  inevitable  and  therefore  to  be  borne 
in  patience;  it  is  too  clearly  the  tyranny  of  his  own 
kind.  If  he  has  any  spirit  at  all,  why  should  he  not 
be  an  Ishmael,  with  his  hand  against  every  man  ? 

"  Phipps  is  less  than  forty  years  old,  when  we  come 
upon  him,  living  and  dying.  What  does  that  signify  ? 
It  signifies  that  though  a  negro,  he  was  born  legally 
free,  to  as  much  freedom  as  the  mere  law  can  bestow. 
A  boon,  we  say,  at  first  blush, — Phipps  was  lucky  as 
compared  with  his  parents,  who  were  born  chattels, 
like  cattle.  But  is  that  altogether  so?  Consider  a 
little.  A  negro  boy  born  into  slavery  was  subject  to 
restraint,  of  a  poor  sort,  to  be  sure  but  better  than  none. 
Sprung  from  a  healthy  race,  he  was  pretty  sure  to  be  a 
healthy  boy,  stout  and  hearty,  having  in  him  all  the 
appetites  of  the  virile  animal.  In  slavery  these 
appetites  were  brought  under  bit  and  bridle.  The  boy 
was  early  set  to  work,  and  kept  working.  At  five 
years  of  age  he  was  picking  cotton  by  his  mother's  side, 
or  helping  her  to  hoe  her  row.  By  the  time  he  was 
come  to  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  the  age  when  the 
masculine  element  in  a  boy  begins  to  stir,  he  was  a 
laborer  in  the  fields,  toiling  from  the  earliest  dawn  till 
the  fall  of  darkness,  too  tired  to  think  of  aught  but  eat- 
ing and  sleeping.  His  were  none  of  the  idle  hands 
which  Satan  finds  work  for.  And  should  by  any 
chance  his  virile  appetites  nevertheless  get  the  better  of 
him,  should  he  permit  his  passions,  the  passions  which 


Mr.  Jakes's  Parable  193 

are  as  natural  to  the  human  youth  as  to  any  male 
animal  whatsoever,  to  assert  themselves  and  carry  him 
beyond  the  limits  of  prescribed  conduct,  he  was  whipped 
for  it,  his  spirit  broken,  his  passions  subdued.  That 
was  a  wretched  condition,  to  be  sure,  a  woeful  de- 
gradation, yet  after  all  it  amounted  to  a  moral  control, 
— in  slavery  the  negro  had  some  reason,  though  no 
very  good  one,  to  behave  himself. 

"  But  how  was  it  after  the  war  ?  In  the  warm 
Southland,  where  a  living  costs  almost  no  effort,  these 
black  people,  made  irresponsible  by  their  centuries  of 
servitude  until  they  were  fairly  incapable  of  taking 
thought  of  the  morrow,  brought  forth  their  young  like 
the  beasts,  and  let  them  grow  up  like  beasts,  with 
hardly  more  care  for  their  morals  than  cattle  have,  or 
any  other  species  of  unmoral  beings.  In  place  of  the 
moral  restraint,  or  semblance  thereof,  degraded  and 
hideous  though  it  was,  which  slavery  had  laid  upon  the 
negro  boy,  there  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  The 
boy  was  born  and  grew  up  in  his  own  way.  He  was 
as  much  as  ever  the  offspring  of  a  healthy  race,  physi- 
cally perfect,  like  a  young  bull.  As  he  advanced  in 
years,  idle  all  the  time  or  engaged  in  dissolute  sports, 
his  virile  appetites  duly  asserted  themselves  and  with- 
out resistance  on  his  part  took  complete  command  of 
him  and  filled  him  with  purposes  which,  however 
natural,  society  has  decreed  mischievous  and  criminal. 
Such  is  the  genesis  of  that  monster  in  human  form 
which  holds  the  South  in  a  state  of  terror  to-day,  so 
that  women  dare  not  stir  abroad  unprotected  and 
chivalry  itself  has  brought  a  generous  and  high- 
spirited  people  down  to  the  level  of  lynchers.  All 
things  considered,  the  wonder  is  that  the  young  black 
isn't  an  even  more  terrible  fellow  than  he  is ;  but  he  is 


194  Mr.  Jakes 

amply  terrible  enough,  as  the  case  stands,  to  have  got 
his  race  more  than  ever  proscribed,  and  that  is  what 
we  need  bear  especially  in  mind  as  we  think  of  Phipps. 
He  was  a  young  black,  with  the  most  odious  reputa- 
tion, regardless  of  how  good  he  might  really  be. 
Knowing  how  he  turned  out  in  the  end,  we  like  to 
imagine  that  he  was  a  very  decent  chap  to  begin  with. 
Perhaps  he  had  religious  parents, — there  were  always 
religious  parents  among  the  negroes;  perhaps,  too,  he 
was  born  with  less  of  the  elemental  brute  in  him  than 
goes  to  make  up  the  average  healthy  man.  But  no 
matter  how  decent  he  may  have  been,  no  matter  how 
strongly  inclined  to  proper  ways,  the  hue  of  his  face 
would  get  him  confounded  with  the  worst.  The 
character  of  the  worst  was  the  character  of  the  best. 
A  negro  buck  was  a  negro  buck, — a  thing  accursed. 

"  Put  yourself  in  his  place.  Experiencing  such 
things,  what  sort  of  a  feeling  would  you  have  for  your 
fellow  men  ?  Would  you  be  less  than  bitter  and  sour 
and  sullen  ?  What  did  the  brotherhood  of  man  mean 
to  Phipps?  What  influence  was  that  noble  principle 
of  conduct  likely  to  have  on  him, — what  influence 
would  it  have  on  you  in  his  place? 

"  We  can  guess  how  the  longing  to  go  North  took 
possession  of  him.  It  was  a  common  and  a  natural 
thing  for  the  negroes  to  look  to  the  North  as  to  a 
veritable  Canaan.  Had  not  all  things  conspired  to 
give  them  the  idea  that  the  North  was  a  sort  of  heaven, 
where  wrong  had  no  place,  and  all  was  light,  refresh- 
ment and  peace?  Its  colder  airs  they  would  perhaps 
not  forget  to  consider,  or  how  little  they  were  fit  to 
undergo  its  ice  and  snow  and  arctic  blasts;  but  what 
were  such  discomforts  to  endure  in  comparison  with 
the  pains  of  their  present  position  ?  And  so  they  went 


Mr.  Jakes's  Parable  195 

North,  as  they  could,  thousands  of  them,  rejoicing  to 
leave  behind  them  the  land  of  bondage.  Phipps  went 
North,  too, — it  is  in  the  North  that  we  find  him.  He 
had  no  money,  of  course, — he  had  to  walk,  unless  he 
stole  a  ride  in  some  cattle-car.  He  was  not  too  good 
to  steal, — not  keenly  alive  to  the  distinctions  of  right 
and  wrong,  or,  where  he  distinguished,  zealous  to  shun 
the  wrong.  If  he  was  not  by  this  time  in  desperate 
rebellion  against  the  regulations  of  society,  he  was  at 
best  indifferent  to  them,  ready  to  transgress  them  with- 
out a  qualm.  What  were  the  laws  of  society  to  him 
whom  society  had  made  an  outcast  of? 

"  More  likely  than  not  he  made  his  way  first  to 
Washington ;  the  home  of  their  great  and  good  govern- 
ment had  an  especial  fascination  for  those  migrating 
negroes.  Washington  was  a  name  to  conjure  with, — 
the  place  was  a  kind  of  Mecca.  If  they  did  not  pray 
night  and  morning  with  their  faces  turned  toward 
Washington,  their  attitude  of  mind  was  something  like 
that.  To  go  and  live  forevermore  in  Washington, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Capitol,  that  were  felicity  in- 
deed. They  did  not  stop  to  ask  how  they  should  sup- 
port themselves  where  there  was  no  soil  to  till, — they 
knew  not  how  to  take  thought  of  such  things.  Slavery 
had  so  schooled  them  to  an  instinct  of  dependence  that 
they  were  apt  to  look  upon  emancipation  as  something 
in  the  nature  of  a  transfer  from  one  owner  to  another, 
'a  mysterious  transaction  by  which  they  had  passed 
from  the  possession  of  their  former  masters  to  the 
possession  of  the  government.  A  masterless  negro 
was  to  them  unthinkable,  and  now  their  master  was  the 
government,  whose  mansion  was  in  Washington.  In 
such  dark,  uncertain  fashion,  we  may  believe,  the 
negro  argued  with  himself.  More  than  likely  our 


196  Mr.  Jakes 

friend  Phipps  made  his  way  first  to  Washington  and 
began  there  with  his  disillusionment." 

"  For  disillusionment,  sooner  or  later,  awaited 
every  negro  who  came  North  in  search  of  the  promised 
land.  Instead  of  being  caught  to  the  bosom  of  a 
rich  and  liberal  people,  as  he  fondly  expected,  he  found 
himself  as  much  as  ever  an  object  of  aversion  whom 
white  men  shunned  and  denied  employment.  White 
men,  unless  the  most  degraded,  were  ashamed  to 
work  with  him ;  only  the  low  work  which  no  white  man 
would  do  was  left  for  him.  That  was  a  new  bitter- 
ness for  the  negro, — the  South,  with  all  its  cruelty, 
had  never  treated  him  so  harshly  in  this  respect.  If 
he  could  not  himself  remember  slavery  days,  he  had 
heard  his  people  tell  about  them, — the  days  when 
women  of  his  color  stood  in  the  position  of  mothers 
to  the  most  aristocratic  children  of  the  South,  and 
masters  there  were  in  plenty  who  would  deny  them- 
selves before  they  would  see  their  dependent  blacks 
denied.  Such  memories  were  not  likely  to  make  the 
disillusionment  less  hard  to  bear. 

"  My  friends,  how  do  you  picture  Phipps  in  your 
minds?  There  is  a  native  kindliness  in  the  African 
race.  Beyond  most  men  they  are  sweet  of  temper, 
patient  to  endure,  quick  to  love  where  any  spark  of 
love  is  vouchsafed  them,  faithful  and  willing.  But 
how  are  we  to  expect  these  fine  traits  to  remain,  under 
the  trials  to  which  negroes  have  been  subjected  since 
their  emancipation  ?  Can  we  put  ourselves  in  Phipps's 
place  once  more,  and  believe  that  we  should  retain  a 
shred  of  good  will  toward  men? 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  but  think  of  him,  when 
first  he  comes  into  our  view,  at  the  age  of  nearly  forty, 
as  a  pretty  unpromising  fellow.  Unless  I  mistake  him, 


Mr.  Jakes's   Parable  197 

he  is  addicted  to  all  the  vices  which  a  very  poor  man 
can  have.  I  surmise  that  he  is  no  stranger  to  the 
dens  where  the  worst  of  humanity  congregate  to  seek 
a  fleeting  image  of  pleasure, — the  nearest  likeness  of 
pleasure  permitted  to  such  as  they, — in  bestial  ex- 
cesses. The  greater  portion  of  what  he  earns  goes  for 
vice,  for  drink  most  of  all.  He  spends  a  great  deal 
for  drink, — in  drink  there  is  forgetfulness,  even  a 
certain  joy,  a  fierce  exaltation.  Gallons  and  gallons  of 
vile  liquor  he  has  drunk,  and  found  this  destroyer  of 
mind  and  body  his  best  friend  on  earth.  It  follows 
almost  inevitably  that  he  has  been  in  affrays.  There  is 
usually  a  quarrelsome  stage  in  any  man's  drunkenness, 
and  not  the  less  so  where  he  is  drunk  on  poison;  and 
these  low  people  scruple  not  to  cut  and  stab.  In  their 
orgies  they  will  fall  out  over  nothing,  and  fight  like 
fiends.  The  men  among  them  will  become  the  keenest 
rivals  for  the  favor  of  some  worthless  woman,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  killing,  unless  they  are  sooner 
parted.  Phipps  has  borne  his  part  in  many  an  affray, 
— no  doubt  of  that.  He  has  cut  and  been  cut.  Pos- 
sibly he  has  been  a  fugitive  from  justice,  slinking  out 
of  sight  of  the  police.  When  I  form  the  likeness  of 
him  in  my  mind,  I  see  sundry  scars  on  his  face,  and 
they  make  it  a  frightful  face.  He  is  called  a  bad 
man,  that  is,  a  dangerous  man.  He  is  often  arrested 
for  petty  disorders,  and  taken  into  court  with  the  dregs. 
He  is  always  guilty,  he  never  has  money  to  pay  a  fine, 
and  so  he  spends  a  considerable  fraction  of  his  life  in 
the  workhouse.  He  doesn't  mind  that,  except  that  it 
cuts  him  off  from  his  solacing  vices.  Whether  in 
prison  or  out,  he  is  equally  the  outcast,  loathed  and 
spat  upon.  White  men,  even  though  they  are  them- 


198  Mr.  Jakes 

selves  of  the  dregs,  object  to  riding  with  him  in  the 
prison  van. 

"  So  much  for  what  we  may  imagine,  building  upon 
the  probabilities  of  the  case.  Now  we  come  to  the 
realities. 

"  It  is  in  Cincinnati  that  we  find  him.  He  doesn't 
push  far  north,  you  see.  In  the  face  of  his  disillusion- 
ment there  is  nothing  to  draw  him  further, — he  tarries 
wherever  there  offers  the  degraded  work  which  he  is 
allowed  to  do.  He  is  a  fleck  of  debris  on  the  surface 
of  the  water, — when  employment  fails  he  will  drift  on. 
He  has  drifted  so  from  Washington,  to  Baltimore,  to 
Pittsburg,  to  Cincinnati,  as  his  opportunity  draws  him. 
It  is  a  poor  opportunity.  His  work  is  disagreeable,  and 
his  pay  is  small;  and  while  he  works  he  will  have  to 
put  up  with  all  manner  of  abuse.  If  he  resents  his  ill 
treatment,  he  will  lose  his  job.  In  slavery  times,  he 
would  be  flogged, — now  he  will  be  discharged;  either 
way  he  is  a  slave.  He  cannot  rise.  Whatever  he  earns 
goes  to  pay  for  the  vices  that  are  his  only  comfort  in 
life. 

"  His  job  just  now,  as  we  get  to  know  him,  is  in 
some  factory  where  there  are  big  steam  vats.  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  a  right  conception  of  these,  but  they 
seem  to  me  like  boilers,  closed  all  round  when  in  use, 
but  quite  hollow, — that  is  to  say,  with  none  of  the 
flue-work  which  you  see  in  a  boiler.  It  is  Phipps's 
business  to  go  down  into  the  vats  and  shovel  out  the 
refuse  which  accumulates  there.  This  work  is  done 
when  the  vats  are  only  partly  cool,  because  time  is 
money, — the  concern  can't  afford  to  wait  for  them  to 
cool  entirely.  Besides  it  isn't  necessary  to  wait,  be- 
cause there  is  degraded  help  to  be  hired  who  will  en- 
dure almost  anything  for  the  sake  of  employment. 


Mr.  Jakes's  Parable  199 

The  concern  will  naturally  do  no  more  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  its  workmen  than  is  absolutely  necessary,  and 
very  little  is  necessary  where  the  workmen  are  negroes. 
The  steam  will  be  shut  off  for  a  little  while  and  then 
Phipps  must  go  down  with  his  shovel.  The  vats,  as  I 
understand,  are  in  a  battery,  so  to  speak,  side  by  side, 
and  there  are  pipes  connecting  them,  furnished  with 
valves  by  means  of  which  any  vat  may  be  cut  out  and 
emptied  of  its  steam,  with  the  others  still  in  use.  We 
know  from  what  happened  that  some  such  arrange- 
ment there  must  have  been. 

"  There  is  a  vat  to  be  cleaned,  and  Phipps  and  an- 
other man  are  sent  in.  This  other  man  is  one  Henry 
French,  and  he  is  white, — on  consideration  of  his 
color  Phipps  has  no  very  strong  reason  for  thinking 
highly  of  him.  Yet  no  doubt  they  two  are  chums  of 
a  sort,  comrades  in  misery,  the  white  man  virtually  a 
negro  since  he  stoops  to  work  with  a  negro  at  a  negro's 
work.  They  have  little  thought  of  sentiment,  any- 
way,— their  work  is  ready  for  them  and  they  go  at 
it.  The  air  is  stifling  hot  down  in  the  vat.  The  men 
are  allowed  to  come  up  and  breathe  now  and  then. 
A  ladder  is  let  down  through  the  manhole,  and  from 
time  to  time,  taking  turns,  they  thrust  out  their  heads 
for  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air.  Nor  do  they  suffer  as  you 
or  I  would, — that  is  to  be  borne  in  mind.  An  angle- 
worm may  be  cut  in  two  and  never  be  the  worse,  and  a 
negro  may  be  sent  into  a  bath  of  steam  which  would 
cause  you  or  me  to  faint,  and  manage  somehow. 

"  Then  comes  the  tragedy. 

"  All  of  a  sudden,  as  these  men  knock  and  scrape 
and  shovel,  half-blinded,  half-suffocated,  there  smites 
their  ears  the  hiss  and  sputter  of  rushing  steam. 
What  does  it  signify?  They  know  only  too  well. 


200  Mr.  Jakes 

They  have  thought  of  the  great  danger  which  threatens 
them,  and  they  are  instinctively  on  the  alert  to  catch 
the  first  warnings  of  its  approach.  The  amount  of  it 
is  that  the  valve  between  their  vat  and  the  steam  supply 
has  opened.  By  accident?  By  inadvertence?  More 
likely  the  latter,  but  what  of  that?  We  blame,  per- 
haps, the  unthinking,  careless  hand  which  has  done  this 
awful  thing,  but  after  all,  who  are  we  to  measure  every 
species  of  human  action  by  our  narrow  standards  of 
good  and  evil?  How  much  of  what  we  call  evil  is 
good  half  seen  through?  Judas  Iscariot  betrayed  his 
Master,  and  him  we  execrate,  finding  no  words  bad 
enough  to  voice  our  abhorrence  of  his  deed.  But  I 
ask  you  what  would  be  the  drama  of  Calvary  had 
Judas  not  done  that  very  thing,  had  he  shrunk  from  his 
part  for  fear  of  the  censure  of  his  fellow  men?  Call 
his  act  what  you  will,  the  crime  of  crimes  indeed,  and 
still  it  had  to  be  committed  in  order  that  a  greater  good 
might  come  to  pass.  The  hand  which  let  the  steam  in 
on  those  two  wretches  made  possible  a  sacrifice  of 
transcendent  merit,  and  by  that  I  doubt  not  it  was 
justified  in  the  final  accounting. 

"  Phipps  and  French,  I  repeat,  know  what  the 
hissing  means, — an  instant  more  and  they  will  be 
cooked  alive.  Consider,  in  so  far  as  you  may,  what 
it  is  to  be  cooked  alive.  It  is  quite  the  most  horrible 
death  a  man  may  die.  Death  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
death  by  sickness  the  most  loathely,  any  manner  of 
death  whatsoever,  though  no  manner  of  death  is  grate- 
ful, were  easier  to  face  than  the  death  which  threatens 
Phipps  and  French.  They  have  thought  of  that,  talked 
of  it,  very  likely.  All  in  a  flash  they  think  of  it  again, 
and  there  is  a  mighty  fear  in  their  hearts.  The  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  the  great  first  principle  of  nature, 


Mr  Jakes's  Parable  201 

will  not  be  long  asserting  itself.  Simultaneously,  and 
in  the  very  moment  when  the  hiss  and  sputter 
strike  their  ears,  they  spring  to  the  ladder. 

"  It  is  only  a  few  feet.  Phipps  may  have  been  a 
little  quicker,  or  a  little  nearer.  Anyway,  he  reaches 
it  first. 

"  His  foot  is  already  on  the  rung. 

"  Then  he  stops  and  draws  back. 

'  You  go  up  first,  Hank/  he  says.     '  You've  got 
a  family  and  I  haven't.' 

"  And  Hank,  scrambling  up  first,  escapes  with  only 
a  few  trifling  burns,  whereas  Phipps,  though  he  follows 
immediately  after,  comes  out  scalded  from  head  to  foot, 
his  flesh  dropping  from  his  bones,  to  linger  for  some 
hours  in  the  intensest  agony,  as  if  to  prove  how  hor- 
rible it  is  to  be  cooked  alive, — and  then  die." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  POINT  OF  IT 

HERE  Mr.  Jakes  paused,  and  silence  reigned  in  the 
little  church.  People  breathed,  of  course,  but  they 
were  so  quiet  about  it  you  could  imagine  they  didn't. 

Was  there  going  to  be  more  of  the  story  of  William 
Phipps?  Evidently,  for  though  Mr.  Jakes  had  paused, 
he  was  looking  down  at  his  congregation  in  a  way  to 
suggest  that  he  wasn't  done, — you  would  guess  at 
once  from  his  manner  that  he  was  only  waiting  for  the 
parable  to  sink  in  a  little.  And  so  it  was;  after  a 
minute  or  so  he  quoted  his  text  again — "  Greater  love 
hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for 
his  friends," — and  resumed  his  discourse: 

"  The  news  of  what  had  happened  spread  quickly, 
as  horrible  news  always  will,  and  people  employed 
about  the  establishment  came  running  in  scores  and 
hundreds,  until  there  was  a  crowd  gathered  to  gaze 
upon  the  formless  mass  of  flesh  that  had  been  Phipps, 
and  to  hear  Henry  French  proclaim,  with  tongue  made 
eloquent  by  gratitude,  the  sacrifice  of  the  man  who  had 
chosen  to  die  that  his  friend  might  live. 

"  These  workmen  were  human  beings,  even  as  you 
and  I  are,  and  we  can  know,  by  looking  into  our  own 
hearts,  about  what  their  emotions  must  have  been. 


The  Point  of  It  203 

First  distinguished,  among  these  emotions,  was  hor- 
ror,— a  great,  absorbing  horror,  to  see  a  man  cooked 
alive.  And  next  was  pity,  likewise  great  and  absorb- 
ing. But  were  these  all?  These  the  men  would 
equally  have  had  were  somebody  to  be  cooked  alive 
under  any  circumstances.  Had  they  no  emotion  by 
reason  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  here  exhibited, 
particularly  the  circumstance  of  Phipps  having  volun- 
tarily given  up  his  life  for  another?  Hearkening  to 
French's  grateful  testimony,  had  it  no  effect  upon 
them  all  its  own?  Of  a  certainty  it  had,  or  they  were 
not  human. 

"  And  what  was  that  other  emotion  ? 

"  My  friends,  I  refer  you  to  your  own  hearts  for  my 
proof  when  I  say  it  was  love, — no  other.  It  was  the 
shadow  and  counterpart  of  that  love,  than  which  no 
love  is  greater,  shown  by  Phipps  in  his  transcendent 
sacrifice.  By  that  tragedy  enacted  before  their  faces 
there  had  come  to  them  an  access  of  good  will, — we 
know  it  because  we  know  that  were  we  in  their  places 
there  must  have  come  to  us  an  access  of  good  will. 
Not  a  man  but  was  softened,  not  a  man  but  was  made 
better  disposed  toward  all  the  world,  not  a  man  but 
was  in  that  moment  less  selfish.  What  man,  provided 
he  be  human  like  you  and  me,  but  must  find  it  easier, 
with  the  spell  of  that  tragedy  upon  him,  to  do  unto 
others  as  he  would  be  done  by?  Of  course  the  spell 
could  not  last  forever, — emotions  are  too  volatile  for 
that.  In  a  few  days  at  most,  very  likely  in  a  few  hours, 
it  would  have  passed,  leaving  these  men  as  they  were 
before;  but  so  long  as  it  lasted  it  made  for  that  best 
morality  which  Jesus  defined  in  the  parable  of  the 
Good  Samaritan.  So  long  as  it  lasted  it  helped  to  get 
God's  will  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven. 


204  Mr.  Jakes 

"  The  effect  is  universal, — no  matter  who  the  man 
is,  so  long  as  he  has  the  common  human  nature,  he 
does  not  escape. 

"  Take  the  foreman,  for  instance.  He  is  a  hard, 
cold  man,  as  he  has  to  be, — his  superiors  are  exacting 
with  him  and  he  has  to  be  exacting  with  those  he  is 
superior  to.  Naturally  he  is  not  pleased  to  see  the 
men  dropping  their  work  and  lingering  about,  and  he 
hurries  over  to  rebuke  them.  There  is  anger  in  his 
heart,  and  he  is  disposed  to  be  severe  and  harsh.  But 
now  he  discovers  what  has  happened, — most  of  all  he 
hears  French's  testimony;  and  can  you  imagine  him 
holding  his  wrath  ?  No,  he  may  still  insist  on  the  men 
going  back  to  their  work,  but  it  will  be  in  a  gentler  way 
than  he  had  intended.  He  will  not  storm  and  scold,  to 
void  the  anger  in  him,  for  now  the  anger  will  be  no 
longer  there.  There  will  be  no  miracle  wrought,  but 
it  will  be  apparent  that  the  cold,  hard  foreman  is  like- 
wise softened, — even  to  him  there  has  come  such  an 
access  of  good  will  as  shall  bear  visible  fruit. 

"  Then  there  is  the  doctor.  You  know  doctors, — it 
is  part  of  their  trade  not  to  be  unduly  affected  by 
horrid  sights.  We  depend  on  them  to  be  calm,  no  mat- 
ter what  agony  they  are  called  on  to  witness.  They 
are  used  to  horrid  sights,  they  are  schooled  in  the 
spectacle  of  blood  and  raw  flesh ;  and  so  it  is  easier  for 
them  to  be  calm.  This  doctor  is  not  especially  shocked. 
If  he  feels  the  horror  and  the  pity  at  all,  they  will  be 
relatively  weak  in  him.  But  how  about  that  other 
emotion?  Doubt  not  he  feels  that,  however  schooled 
he  may  be  in  the  denial  of  his  feelings.  When  he 
hears  French's  testimony,  he  sees  the  dying  Phipps  in 
a  new  light.  The  doctor  is  more  sensitive  than  the 
others,  at  bottom,  more  delicately  nurtured,  and  the 


The  Point  of  It  205 

impression  will  be  stronger  upon  him,  the  spell  of  the 
tragedy  will  abide  with  him  longer.  Him  you  will 
find  telling  others  about  it,  and  delighting  to  tell,  dwel- 
ling on  the  sublimity  of  it, — he  will  tell  his  family, 
his  students,  other  patients,  who  come  to  him  with  their 
woes.  And  in  his  bearing  toward  people  you  will 
find  him  different,  you  will  find  him  better  disposed. 
To  him  also  has  come  the  access  of  good  will  to  bear 
visible  fruit. 

"  And  the  newspaper  reporters.  They  are  the 
evangelists.  Reporters  have  much  to  make  them  cal- 
lous, with  all  the  meanness  and  sordidness  they  en- 
counter. But  their  part  is  to  nose  out  all  the  details, 
and  very  soon  they  come  upon  that  which  is  unusual  in 
the  case  of  Phipps.  And  flighty,  cynical  fellows 
though  they  are,  they  are  still  human,  and  they  are 
affected  as  have  been  the  others.  They  have  experi- 
enced the  access  of  good  will, — they  are  filled  with  it  as 
they  write,  though  they  shall  call  it  by  no  name  or 
consciously  identify  it.  It  is  there  nevertheless,  and 
it  flows  out  through  their  fingers  and  pencils,  into  the 
words  and  sentences  which  they  put  down,  and  these 
latter  carry  out  the  spell  in  the  printed  page  and  cause 
it  to  lie  upon  the  thousands  who  read.  Imagine  your- 
self opening  your  newspaper  and  reading  the  deftly 
written  story  of  William  Phipps,  and  tell  me  whether 
or  no  there  would  come  to  you,  in  consequence,  a 
better  disposition,  a  greater  readiness  to  do  as  you 
would  be  done  by. 

"  He  died,  and  was  buried,  and  his  funeral  was  a 
triumph.  They  hid  his  coffin  in  flowers  and  they 
followed  him  to  his  grave  as  if  he  had  been  one  of 
the  world's  great.  They  freely  confessed  their  debt 
to  him.  They  raised  a  shaft  of  stone  and  wrote  on 


206  Mr.  Jakes 

it  the  story  of  what  he  did,  how  that  he  had  exempli- 
fied the  love  than  which  there  is  none  greater.  It  is 
a  story  worthy  to  stand,  because  whosoever  shall  pause 
to  read  it,  though  he  shall  live  a  thousand  years  hence, 
must  go  his  way  a  better  man. 

"  Nor  are  these  all, — many  more,  so  intimately  are 
men  in  touch  with  one  another,  have  been  blessed 
by  the  ministry  of  Phipps.  In  these  may  I  not  include 
you,  my  friends,  who  listen  now  to  my  poor  account? 
Are  you  not  in  this  instant  conscious  of  an  access  of 
good  will?  Thinking  of  Phipps  are  you  not  made 
better  disposed  ?  I  believe  I  know  that  you  are. 

"  I  call  it  the  ministry  of  Phipps, — and  that  is  the 
point  I  am  getting  at.  What  I  mean  is  no  less  than 
that  in  his  last  sublime  moments  of  life,  that  lowly 
negro  was  a  minister  of  Jesus  the  Christ,  in  the  way 
of  the  New  Testament.  Call  it  love,  or  good  will,  or 
God's  will,  that  sentiment  which  he  caused  to  flow  into 
so  many  hearts  was  the  very  sentiment,  both  in  man- 
ner and  matter,  which  Jesus  died  to  bring  into  the 
world.  St.  John  calls  it  grace;  Moses  brought  the 
law,  says  St.  John,  but  grace,  the  grace  to  give  the 
law  effect,  came  by  Jesus.  A  minister  is  a  servant, 
and  as  an  ordinary  servant  brings  you  meat  Phipps 
brings  you  the  saving  grace,  only  with  the  difference 
that  whereas  you  may  decline  the  meat,  grace,  brought 
in  that  way,  you  may  not  decline, — it  possesses  you 
without  asking  your  leave.  Grace,  love,  good  will, 
God's  will,  these  are  but  different  names  for  the  same 
thing,  and  it  is  the  very  thing  which  all  religions,  from 
the  beginning,  have  tried  to  put  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
in  order  to  their  betterment.  The  Christian  way  of 
bringing  this  about,  the  way  taught  by  Jesus,  is  the 
way  Phipps  pursued.  Nobody,  least  of  all  himself, 


The  Point  of  It  207 

thought  of  the  negro's  sacrifice  as  a  renewal  of  the 
sacrifice  of  Calvary,  but  no  matter.  The  effect  was  the 
same,  notwithstanding.  The  effect  waited  on  no  con- 
fession of  faith,  no  acknowledgment  whatever. 

"  Ordained  ?  No,  Phipps  was  not  ordained,  in  the 
common  sense.  He  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  a 
seminary,  perhaps.  He  knew  no  definitions  in  theo- 
logy. No  bishop  had  ever  laid  hands  on  him.  As 
likely  as  not  he  had  never  once  looked  into  the  Bible, 
and  he  knew  the  name  of  Jesus  only  as  a  word  to 
blaspheme  with.  He  was  a  minister  by  his  works, 
and  we  shall  not  quarrel  with  his  orders.  The 
supremely  unselfish  impulse  which  made  him  draw  back 
and  let  his  friend  go  up  the  ladder  first,  that  was  his 
sufficient  ordination." 

Once  more  Mr  Jakes  paused,  and  now  you  would 
guess  that  he  had  finished.  But  no, — he  proceeded  to 
a  sort  of  summing  up.  It  was  in  a  different  manner, 
however, — he  was  more  conscious,  and  he  stumbled 
considerably,  especially  over  certain  phrases. 

"  Such,"  he  said,  "  is  the  dynamic  of  love.  Emo- 
tional validity — I  mean  maxims  of  morality  are  devoid 
of  emotional  validity.  They  served  well  enough  while 
yet  men  were  children,  because  it  is  possible  to  make 
children  obedient,  by  coaxing  them,  or  scaring  them, 
or  otherwise.  But  men  are  no  longer  children  and 
can't  be  ruled  so.  They  already  know  as  much  about 
morality  as  you  can  teach  them,  but  mere  knowing 
doesn't  make  them  moral.  In  order  to  make  them 
moral,  you  must  enliven  your  law  with  emotion, — give 
it  emotional  validity.  Phipps  might  have  gone  to 
school  and  learned  all  there  is  in  the  books  about  right 
and  wrong,  and  then  gone  forth  and  preached  his  learn- 
ing with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  and  in  the 


208  Mr.  Jakes 

end  have  done  not  a  tithe  as  much  to  make  men  better 
as  he  did  in  that  one  brief  moment  of  sublime  sacrifice. 
Emotional  validity — I  mean  the  dynamic  of  love  asks 
for  no  intellectual  assent,  no  conscious  belief,  no  faith. 
Whoever  takes  up  his  cross  and  follows  Jesus  becomes, 
by  that,  a  dynamo  of  love,  to  generate  love  and  drive  it 
into  the  hearts  of  other  men.  He  need  not  give  up 
his  life,  as  Phipps  did,  though  it  is  by  giving  up  his 
life  that  he  sets  the  highest  seal  on  his  ministry.  In 
the  smaller,  even  in  the  smallest  concerns  of  life  he 
may  still  be  devoted  to  sacrifice,  still  be  a  dynamo  send- 
ing out  love  like  a  genial  current  to  flow  into  the 
hearts  of  other  men." 

The  sermon  ended  so  flatly  and  lamely,  indeed,  that 
Dr.  Robert,  could  he  have  known,  must  have  trembled, 
even  though  all  else  had  gone  so  strangely  well.  For 
the  doctor  had  set  great  store  by  the  ending,  expecting 
much  of  certain  sounding  expressions,  concerning 
which,  when  his  boy  muttered  that  their  meaning 
eluded  him,  he  remarked  that  it  was  necessary  to  split 
the  ears  of  the  groundlings. 

There  was  a  hitch  over  the  benediction.  The  con- 
gregation, having  sung  the  last  hymn,  remained 
standing,  as  the  custom  was,  expectantly,  with  heads 
bowed ;  but  Mr.  Jakes  had  gone  wool-gathering,  to  be 
recalled  only  after  an  interval,  by  the  uneasy  shuffling 
here  and  there.  Luck  was  with  him  still,  however, — 
people  attributed  his  hesitancy  once  more  to  his  deep 
feeling,  and  set  it  down  to  his  credit.  When  the  bene- 
diction was  pronounced  at  last,  people  called  it  good. 

Afton  was  won,  and  now  that  the  services  were 
over,  pressed  forward  delightedly  to  shake  hands  and 
get  acquainted.  Squire  Thornhill  took  his  place  by  the 
pulpit  and  did  the  honors,  making  the  introductions 


The  Point  of  It  209 

with  a  flourish  of  pompous  wit.  Mr.  Jakes  was  taken 
wholly  by  surprise, — even  the  searching  foresight  of 
Dr.  Robert  had  reckoned  on  no  such  ordeal, — and  made 
very  ill  at  ease ;  he  knew  not  in  the  least  how  to  carry 
his  part,  and  dared  venture  scarcely  a  word  in  answer 
to  the  greetings  that  came  pouring  over  him  like  a 
flood.  A  very  flood  it  was, — no  other  tongue  but  his 
was  tied.  Mr.  Jakes  heard  himself  praised  and  con- 
gratulated on  every  hand,  and  his  sermon  declared  to 
be  fine,  splendid,  beautiful,  lovely,  sound,  helpful  and 
what  not. 

The  squire  was  as  enthusiastic  as  anybody. 

"  Jakes,"  quoth  he,  "  you  must  come  up  to  my  house 
to  tea  Wednesday  evening.  You've  suggested  some 
pretty  keen  thoughts,  and  I  want  to  talk  with  you 
about  them.  I  want  you  to  meet  my  family  more 
intimately.  It'll  do  them  and  me  good,  and  maybe  it 
won't  do  you  any  harm." 

Compliments,  especially  where  they  fall  in  so  copious 
a  shower,  will  sometimes  affect  bash  fulness  favorably, 
and  Mr.  Jakes  was  feeling  rather  better  until  the 
invitation  to  tea  burst  on  him  and  filled  him  with 
new  alarm.  What  further  unheard-of  trial  did  it 
portend  ?  He  hadn't  the  faintest  notion  and  he  quickly 
imagined  the  worst.  No,  he  would  thrust  himself 
into  no  such  peril.  He  stammered  out  a  declination, 
frankly  confessing,  in  his  desperation,  that  he  had 
rather  not.  But  Thornhill  wouldn't  listen. 

"  I  know  you're  not  a  society  man,"  he  said,  clapping 
his  pastor  on  the  back.  "  I  like  you  all  the  better  for 
that.  We're  not  much  for  society,  either.  You'll  find 
no  formality,  none  at  all.  Come  up  and  make  your- 
self at  home.  No  ice  to  break.  You'll  be  glad  you 
came." 


2i  o  Mr.  Jakes 

And  after  all,  that  might  prove  true.  Mr.  Jakes 
bethought  him  how  that  he  had  undertaken  to  do,  with- 
in reason,  the  things  expected  of  him,  and  here  was  a 
thing  clearly  expected  and  not  on  its  face  unreason- 
able. 


CHAPTER  V 

OMNIS    AMANS 

THE  Thornhills,  by  all  ordinary  tokens,  were  the 
highest  of  Afton's  high  life.  They  had  a  furnace  in 
their  cellar  and  a  piano  in  their  front  room.  And  they 
kept  a  hired  girl  the  year  round.  These  were  distinc- 
tions. You  would  hear  it  more  than  broadly  intimated 
that  certain  things  were  easily  to  be  had  where  a  body 
didn't  take  the  trouble  to  pay  for  them,  yet  somehow 
the  Thornhills'  distinctions  remained  distinguished. 
There  wasn't  another  furnace  in  the  village  and  only 
two  in  the  whole  county.  A  few  families  had  an 
organ,  but  none  had  a  piano,  while  as  for  hired  girls, 
they  were  markedly  exceptional.  Once  more,  and 
without  opening  your  ears  much,  you  might  hear  that 
any  number  of  girls  had  left  the  squire's  roof  because 
they  had  to  earn  their  wages  a  second  time  collecting 
them;  yet  nevertheless  the  household  always  boasted 
its  hired  girl,  year  in  and  year  out. 

The  family  were  three  in  number, — the  squire  him- 
self aggressive  and  abounding  in  speech ;  Mrs.  Thorn- 
hill,  slim  and  silent  and  not  very  much  interested  in 
anything;  and  Cecilia,  who  was  their  daughter  and 
only  child. 

Cecilia  was  twelve  years  old,  and  enormously  accom- 


212  Mr.  Jakes 

plished  for  her  day  and  generation.  Her  performances 
on  the  piano  were  quite  the  wonder  of  that  particular 
corner  of  the  world.  She  could  play  Silvery  Waves 
entire,  even  to  that  part  which  called  for  a  sustained 
trill  with  the  third  and  fourth  fingers,  while  the  thumb 
and  remaining  fingers  were  picking  out  the  melody. 
Have  you  ever  tried  to  trill,  on  the  piano,  with  your 
third  and  fourth  fingers?  Do  so,  and  you  will  begin  to 
understand  how  accomplished  Cecilia  was.  Even  her 
illustrious  namesake  who  brought  the  angel  down 
from  heaven,  would  not  easily  have  played  Silvery 
Waves  all  through  without  skipping. 

Mr.  Jakes  thought  this  little  girl  very  lovely  indeed, 
the  first  glimpse  he  caught  of  her.  His  bashfumess, 
very  much  in  evidence  while  the  squire  was  presenting 
him  to  the  cold  and  colorless  lady  of  the  house,  eased 
much  in  the  presence  of  the  blooming  child;  his  heart 
went  out  to  her  as  it  might  to  a  sweet  flower  suddenly 
met  with  in  a  desert.  But  when  she  greeted  him,  with 
airs  and  affectations,  and  especially  when  she  played 
Silvery  Waves,  somehow  the  bashfulness  came  back  on 
him  worse  than  ever.  It  was  too  much  like  finding  the 
flower  of  the  desert  a  paper  imitation  after  all,  correct 
in  form  but  lacking  in  essence. 

After  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  company 
of  the  whole  family,  the  squire,  with  courtly  unction, 
asked  Mrs.  Thornhill  if  she  would  excuse  them,  where- 
upon Mrs.  Thornhill,  not  to  be  outdone,  would,  and 
Mr.  Jakes  was  led  away,  by  his  host,  to  the  library. 
That  was  another  distinction,  only  a  degree  less 
distinguished  than  the  furnace,  the  piano,  and  the 
perennial  hired  girl.  There  was  nothing  like  it  in 
Afton.  Most  houses  had  no  books  in  them  but  the 
children's  readers  and  arithmetics  and  geographies. 


Omnis  Amans  213 

There  were  possibly  as  many  as  four  copies  of 
Webster's  Unabridged,  and  Daniel  the  pensioner  owned 
a  set  of  Appleton's  Cyclopedia,  which  he  never  in  the 
world  looked  into,  but  which  he  was  proud  to  speak 
of  as  containing,  like  the  Koran,  all  wisdom.  What 
was  the  use,  protested  Daniel,  of  a-clutterin'  and  a- 
lumberin'  up  your  house  with  four  or  five  hundred 
books,  when  you  could  have  all  the  good  of  them  in 
twenty-five  or  thirty?  But  the  squire  chose  to  clutter 
and  lumber  his  house  notwithstanding.  His  library, 
not  a  small  room,  was  lined  with  books.  Nor  did  they 
remain  unread.  Their  owner  spent  most  of  his  spare 
time  with  them.  He  was  really  a  bookish  man. 

"  Light  reading  for  a  scholar  and  theologian,"  he 
said,  in  mock  deprecation,  as  he  set  out  the  easy-chair. 
"  I  don't  get  to  the  bottom  of  things,  as  you  learned 
men  do.  I  haven't  the  time,  to  say  nothing  of  ability. 
Here  are  the  German  transcendentalists." 

He  swept  his  hand  over  a  shelf.  Mr.  Jakes,  having 
taken  a  seat,  stared  dumbly  at  the  backs  of  the  books. 

"  They  are  persona  non  gratce  to  the  cloth,  I  dare- 
say?" the  squire  went  on,  with  a  jocular  nod. 

He  was  looking  at  Mr.  Jakes  and  Mr.  Jakes,  no 
escape  offering,  nodded  back. 

"  I  got  interested  in  them  through  Emerson," 
Thornhill  affably  explained,  spreading  the  while.  "  I 
wanted  to  see  what  transcendentalism  was  like  at  its 
source.  But  do  you  know,  I  never  have  been  able  to 
get  beyond  Kant,  or  far  with  him,  for  that  matter? 
It  seems  to  me  like  plunging  into  a  deep  sea,  along 
with  an  expert  diver.  Kant  takes  me  down  till  I 
almost  lose  myself,  and  come  up  dazed,  with  a  ringing 
in  my  ears.  Fichte  takes  me  still  deeper,  and  I  bring 
back  hardly  any  definite  sensation  except  of  discomfort 


214 

and  a  feeling  that  I'm  pretty  small  potatoes.  And 
Hegel, — well,  old  Hegel  takes  me  down  so  deep  that 
I  rise  to  the  surface  bleeding  at  the  nose,  so  to  speak, 
and  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  afoot  or  on  horseback." 

The  squire  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  Mr.  Jakes 
smiled  a  faint,  scared  smile.  Why  shouldn't  he  be 
scared  ?  What  if  he  should  be  cornered  into  venturing 
some  sort  of  a  rejoinder?  But  he  wasn't, — in  a 
moment  his  host  was  off  again;  he  was  wound  up 
and  eager  to  display  himself. 

"  By  the  way,  Jakes,"  he  said,  "  what  is  your 
notion  of  the  categorical  imperative?" 

The  new  minister  had  not  come  there  to  seem  what 
he  wasn't, — he  was  willing  to  confess  that  he  had  never 
heard  of  the  categorical  imperative;  but  before  he  could 
form  the  words,  the  squire  was  once  more  cantering 
ahead. 

"  That's  a  delicate  question,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"  When  a  philosopher  like  Kant  goes  out  of  his  way 
to  be  kind  to  religion,  it  doesn't  become  a  clergyman  to 
be  harsh  with  him.  But  a  mere  layman  like  myself 
need  have  no  such  scruples,  and  I  say  plainly,  without 
equivocation,  that  I  regard  the  categorical  imperative 
as  a  cowardly  evasion." 

He  brought  this  out  denunciatorily.  To  add  still 
further  emphasis,  he  tilted  his  heels  a  couple  of  inches 
or  so  off  the  floor  and  came  down  on  them  in  a 
crunching  manner. 

"  Emerson,  Mr.  Jakes,"  he  declared,  glowering 
solemnly,  "  would  have  been  no  such  coward.  Where- 
soever the  light  led,  he  followed.  In  that,  at  least, 
he  was  greater  than  his  master,  if  Kant  was  indeed  in 
any  real  sense  his  master." 


Omnis  Amans  215 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke,  Thornhill  looking 
aggressively  down  and  Mr.  Jakes  weakly  up.  Once 
more  the  new  minister  was  on  the  point  of  protesting 
that  he  was  being  led  beyond  his  knowledge,  and  once 
more  he  was  prevented.  The  squire  turned  abruptly 
and  swept  his  hand  over  another  shelf  with  an  eloquent 
gesture. 

"  Emerson ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  tones  which  dripped 
with  reverence.  "  The  grandest  mind,  the  bravest 
heart,  the  purest  soul  that  God  ever  put  in  the  human 
form!  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  with  one  exception. 
I  will  say,  with  one  exception.  I  make  that  concession 
to  the  Christian  tradition." 

He  took  down  one  of  the  volumes  and  turned  the 
leaves. 

"  Mr.  Jakes,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  pay  you  a 
very  high  compliment, — I  don't  well  know  how  it  could 
be  a  higher.  Your  phrase,  'dynamic  of  love',  reminds 
me  of  Emerson.  It  is  distinctly  Emersonian,  in  my 
opinion, — the  opinion,  of  course,  of  a  simple,  unlearned 
layman,"  and  the  squire  swelled  especially  under 
this  magnanimous  burst  of  self-depreciation. 

"  Really,"  stammered  Mr.  Jakes,  "  I — that  is " 

He  was  going  to  confess  outright  that  the  phrase 
wasn't  his  at  all,  that  it  meant  little  or  nothing  to  him, 
— the  whole  truth,  in  short;  but  Thornhill  wouldn't 
have  it. 

"  I  know,  I  know !  "  he  said.  "  You're  too  modest 
to  claim  credit.  I  admire  you  for  that.  That's 
Emersonian,  too.  Some  say  Emerson  was  vain,  but 
he  wasn't.  You  and  I,  who  know  him  by  his  books  and 
not  by  mere  personal  traits,  who,  in  other  words,  know 
him  for  what  he  really  was, — nobody  can  tell  us  he 
was  a  vain  man.  He  was  superlatively  a  modest  man, 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  term.  Of  course  true  modesty 


2i 6  Mr.  Jakes 

doesn't  tell  a  man  to  deny  knowing  what  he  knows 
he  knows.  That's  false  modesty." 

"  And  yet,  Mr.  Thornhill " 

So  far  Mr.  Jakes  got  with  a  purpose  to  disclaim 
ever  having  read  a  word  of  Emerson's,  when  he  was 
headed  off. 

"  Certainly  not ! "  cried  the  squire,  and  thumped  the 
table  with  his  fist.  "  Certainly " 

But  just  here  it  fell  his  turn  to  be  headed  off.  Mrs. 
Thornhill  appeared  in  the  doorway,  like  a  thin  sort  of 
ghost,  announcing  in  a  voice  of  ghostly  calm  that  tea 
was  ready.  Would  they  be  pleased  to  step  out  ? 

"  Come,  Jakes,"  said  the  squire,  descending  from 
transcendental  heights  to  the  commonplace  of  hospit- 
ality, and  led  out,  as  he  had  led  in,  marshaling  his 
guest  to  the  dining-room.  The  table  was  square  and 
rather  large  and  they  had  each  of  them  a  long  side 
so  that  they  seemed  far  apart  when  they  were  down. 
Mr.  Jakes  sat  opposite  the  lovely  Cecilia,  and  found  her 
scrutiny  distinctly  hard  to  bear.  To  be  sure  she  was 
too  accomplished  in  the  elegancies  of  the  polite  world 
to  stare  at  him  directly,  but  she  managed  to  keep  an 
eye  on  him  pretty  constantly,  and  to  make  him  very 
conscious.  And  particularly  did  the  child's  attention 
serve  to  make  him  conscious  of  his  clothes, — perhaps 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  thought  of  them  with 
shame.  He  possessed  but  the  one  suit  for  all  occasions, 
the  suit  which  had  astonished  Afton  on  the  day  of  the 
inaugural,  a  workingman's  garb,  and  old  at  that.  The 
squire  wore  linen,  fresh  from  the  laundry,  and  his 
coat  was  sleek  and  new,  and  Mr.  Jakes  felt  the 
difference,  with  Cecilia's  eye  upon  him. 

He  was  requested  to  ask  the  blessing  and  though  the 
expression  was  unfamiliar,  he  rightly  guessed  what  it 


Omnis  Amans  217 

meant,  and  was  not  too  embarrassed  to  bethink  him  to 
render  his  little  prayer  in  English,  though  Father 
Peter's  Latin  grace  leaped  to  his  tongue.  But  just 
at  the  end,  quite  involuntarily,  and  without  knowing 
what  he  did  until  it  was  done,  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  Nor  did  the  slip  pass  unheeded.  Cecilia,  rais- 
ing her  downcast  glance  a  little  sooner  than  the  others, 
caught  the  strange  gesture,  and  after  that  her  scrutiny 
was  harder  to  bear  than  ever. 

The  squire  was  nowhere  near  done  airing  himself. 
He  talked  and  talked,  occupying  all  the  time.  He 
spoke  most  of  Emerson,  bringing  him  in  at  every  pre- 
text,— making  pretexts,  indeed;  but  others  received 
his  attention.  He  was  loaded  and  primed  to  make  an 
impression  on  his  guest,  and  he  wandered  far,  from 
the  Donation  of  Constantine  and  the  False  Decretals 
of  Isidore,  down  to  the  Oxford  movement  and  the  new 
revision.  Hardly  any  field  was  overlooked,  in  fact. 
He  discussed  literature  in  the  manner  of  an  adept.  He 
liked  Thackeray  better  than  Dickens,  but  considered 
Dickens,  in  spots,  the  greatest  creative  genius  in  the 
language.  Shakespeare  he  deemed  much  overrated. 
George  Eliot  was  pretty  good,  for  a  woman,  and  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward  even  better.  However,  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  understood  as  raving  over  Robert  Elsmere. 
Not  by  any  means.  Elsmere  was,  in  fact,  a  poor  char- 
acter, poorly  worked  out. 

Wouldn't  Mr.  Jakes  have  more  tea? 

No  more, — and  these  were  about  the  only  words  the 
minister  was  called  on  to  utter.  The  Squire  flowed 
copiously,  joyfully  carrying  the  whole  weight  of  the 
conversation;  and  that  was  fortunate, — they  would 
have  got  on  but  awkwardly,  had  any  considerable  part 
of  that  weight  fallen  on  Mr.  Jakes.  P"or  now  his 


21 8  Mr.  Jakes 

tongue  was  doubly  tied.  There  was  Cecilia  furtively 
eyeing  him,  but  that  was  no  longer  the  worst.  Indeed, 
Cecilia  was  quite  forgotten, — another  person  had  en- 
tered his  life,  within  those  few  minutes,  and  blotted 
out  the  sense  of  about  all  else.  In  the  wink  of  an  eye, 
so  to  say,  a  new  thread  had  been  shot  through  the  web 
of  his  destiny,  in  much  the  most  important  thread  yet. 

The  blessing  acceptably  asked,  Mrs.  Thornhill 
tinkled  a  little  bell  and  the  hired  girl  came  in  with  the 
tea.  Mr.  Jakes  sat  with  his  back  toward  the  kitchen, 
and  by  that  she  came  in  behind  him,  so  he  did  not  see 
her  until  she  passed  round  the  table  and  was  setting  her 
burden  down  by  her  mistress'  elbow.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  moving  figure,  and  looked  up, — the  girl, 
with  all  the  candor  of  her  species,  was  staring  at  him ; 
and  their  eyes  met.  It  was  all  over  in  an  instant.  Mr. 
Jakes  looked  down  straightway,  but  in  the  interval  he 
was  become  a  changed  man,  inhabiting  a  different 
country,  with  its  new  heaven  and  its  new  earth.  He 
was  dazed  and  bewildered,  knowing  not  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  only  that  it  was  something  momentous. 
He  had  come  there  a  complete  stranger,  except  as  hear- 
say might  inform  him,  to  the  mightiest  of  human  pas- 
sions. No  doubt  Cecilia  had  more  understanding  of 
such  matters  than  he,  the  better  discernment  to  identify 
those  ineffable  sensations  which  had  come  over  him. 
About  all  he  could  make  of  them  was  an  astonishing 
confusion,  the  most  confounded  in  all  his  experience, 
bitter  and  sweet  all  at  once,  in  the  midst  of  which  he 
seemed  to  be  tossed  about  like  a  bit  of  cork  in  a 
whirlpool. 

The  girl's  name  was  Christine,  though  her  name 
didn't  matter  in  the  least, — he  knew  it  not,  nor  had 
a  thought  about  it;  she  was  sufficiently  identified  unto 


Omnis  Amans  219 

him,  for  all  eternity,  by  the  look  she  had  given  him. 
She  was  a  great  full-bosomed  Swede,  with  flaxen  hair 
and  pink  cheeks,  very  handsome,  in  a  large,  animal 
way, — but  neither  did  these  potent  charms  much  mat- 
ter. Later,  perhaps,  when  he  should  have  brooded 
over  his  passion,  these  peculiarly  feminine  attributes 
might  get  to  mean  something  to  Mr.  Jakes;  for  the 
present  it  was  only  the  eyes  as  they  shed  their  radiance 
over  him,  as  they  darted  into  the  very  center  of  his  soul 
he  knew  not  what  message,  save  that  it  thrilled  him, 
and  stunned  him,  and  made  him  a  cork  in  a  whirlpool, 
— not  the  bodily  eyes  (Mr.  Jakes  couldn't  have  told 
you  what  color  they  were)  but  eyes  become  the  mighty 
means  whereby  deep  speaketh  unto  deep. 

He  bolted  his  toast,  and  it  might  have  been  sole- 
leather,  for  aught  he  knew  to  the  contrary.  He  gulped 
down  his 'tea  and  tasted  nothing.  The  squire's  voice, 
grown  more  and  more  boisterous  with  his  rising  delight 
in  himself,  was  as  the  roar  of  a  distant  cataract,  or  the 
brawl  of  a  noisy  brook,  meaningless.  'Thornhill  was 
all  the  time  appealing  to  his  guest  in  support  of  his 
views,  but  always  without  waiting  for  a  reply.  He 
was  gladly  ready  to  construe  silence  into  assent.  In  no 
way  could  Mr.  Jakes  have  responded  more  satis- 
factorily than  by  keeping  still,  and  his  absent  manner, 
what  should  it  seem  but  a  scholarly  thoughtfulness  ? 
If  the  young  man  was  more  or  less  dumfounded,  what 
was  that  to  wonder  at,  with  all  the  wisdom  of  the  ages 
on  parade  before  him? 

When  they  were  done  with  tea  Mrs.  Thornhill  once 
more  suffered  herself  to  be  prevailed  on,  by  her  hus- 
band's courtly  persuasions,  to  excuse  them,  and  they 
filed  back  into  the  library, — the  squire  quite  at  the 
exuberant  flood-tide  of  his  discoursing,  Mr.  Jakes 


22O  Mr.  Jakes 

knowing  not  in  the  least  whether  he  walked  on  solid 
floor  or  in  the  clouds.  And  still  his  manner  was  satis- 
fying. He  lay  back  in  the  easy-chair,  outwardly  calm 
for  all  his  inward  confusion,  and  gazed  up  at  the 
squire  and  the  books,  and  wore  the  air  of  being  prop- 
erly overwhelmed  by  these,  though  he  saw  absolutely 
nothing,  anywhere,  but  a  pair  of  viking  eyes,  darting 
messages. 

He  stayed  till  after  midnight.  He  would  have 
stayed  all  night,  so  thoroughly  did  his  spell  rob  him 
of  the  power  of  initiative,  had  not  the  squire,  who  had 
long  since  warmed  to  the  point  of  calling  him  his  dear 
fellow,  reluctantly  brought  the  sitting  to  an  end. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  this  is  what  I  enjoy.  I 
could  go  on  this  way  till  morning.  But  life  isn't  made 
up  wholly  of  its  joys.  We  have  the  morrow  and  its 
duties  to  think  of.  So  we'll  say  good-night,  for  this 
time." 

They  parted  at  the  front  door,  the  squire  lighting 
his  guest  out,  and  gripping  him  cordially  by  the  hand 
by  way  of  final  compliment. 

"  Come  up  any  time !  "  he  said.  "  Use  my  library 
just  as  if  it  were  your  own.  It's  the  library  of  an 
unlearned  layman,  but  you  may  find  something  in  it 
worth  your  while." 

A  singular  illusion  overtook  Mr.  Jakes.  Of  course 
it  was  the  squire's  eyes  that  beamed  on  him  in  the  light 
of  the  hand-lamp  held  high ;  but  they  darted  Christine's 
message  all  over  again.  And  whose  hand  was  it  press- 
ing his,  if  not  Christine's?  He  trembled  violently. 
He  was  like  one  who  holds  the  handles  of  a  battery, — 
he  could  not  let  go  though  the  shock  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot;  Thornhill  had  to  disengage  himself  at 
last,  by  gentle  force.  It  was  all  very  pleasant  for 


Omnis  Amans  221 


Thornhill,  who  had  likewise  his  illusion.  Was  it  not 
all  testimony  to  the  tremendous  impression  he  had 
made  on  this  young  man  ?  Cecilia  and  her  mother  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  it  was  better  so.  Cecilia,  especially, — 
had  Mr.  Jakes  held  her  hand  in  that  clinging,  electri- 
fied fashion,  could  the  accomplished  child  have  failed 
to  draw  unfortunate  inferences  ? 


CHAPTER  VI 

OMNIS  AMANS  AMENS 

HE  went  home.  Instinct  was  enough  to  direct  his 
heedless  footsteps  thither, — conscious  volition  was 
wholly  in  suspension.  Do  you  rightly  consider  Mr. 
Jakes's  peculiar  position  ?  Your  average  man  come  to 
his  age  will  have  been  in  love  a  score  of  times  already, 
but  it  was  this  man's  first  attack.  Your  average  man, 
having  learned  by  experience  the  awkwardness  of  the 
business,  will  be  on  his  guard,  his  heart  warily  forti- 
fied against  the  shaft  which  may  strike  him  any  mo- 
ment. But  this  man,  not  forewarned,  foreseeing  noth- 
ing, fearing  least  of  all  the  thing  he  had  most  to  fear, 
had  come  with  his  tender  heart  on  his  sleeve,  and  be- 
hold, it  was  pierced  through  and  through. 

He  had  no  inclination  to  go  to  bed,  late  as  was  the 
hour, — he  sat  him  down,  in  the  dark,  to  meditate.  He 
would  force  himself  to  meditate,  to  take  thought  of  his 
situation,  to  look  his  new  trial  fairly  in  the  face.  No, 
that  wasn't  the  needful  thing,  either, —  what  he  needed 
was  to  put  the  thought  of  his  situation  away  from  him, 
to  forget  all  about  it,  to  force  himself  to  meditate 
on  other  matters.  Very  well,  then!  Before  he  went 
up  to  the  squire's  he  had  been  wondering  what  he 
should  preach  about  next  Sunday;  that  was  a  very 

222 


Omnis  Amans  Amens  223 

proper  matter, — he  would  fix  his  meditations  upon  it. 

What  should  he  preach  about  next  Sunday? 

About  two  wide  eyes,  darting  messages  of  tremend- 
ous import!  Anyway  his  thoughts,  start  them  as  he 
would,  command  them  as  he  would,  came  to  nothing 
else. 

He  lighted  his  lamp,  with  a  view  to  writing, — some- 
times a  man  will  more  easily  control  his  thoughts  if 
he  writes.  But  hereupon  an  extraordinary  thing 
happened, — he  raised  his  eyes,  casually,  to  a  print 
above  his  table  which  had  hitherto  been  a  portrait  of 
Beethoven,  and  it  was  Christine.  It  brought  him  his 
first  conscious  impression  of  her  face  as  a  whole;  as 
yet  he  had  been  sensible  only  of  the  eyes.  Memory 
of  its  own  motion  put  her  heavy  roll  of  flaxen  hair  in 
place  of  the  master  musician's  shocky  bristles;  filled 
out  his  sunken  cheeks  plumply,  and  pinkly;  made  of 
his  sad,  sagging  mouth  a  rosebud,  on  rather  a  large 
scale,  for  even  infatuation  could  not  picture  Christine 
as  a  delicate  creature, — she  had  a  wholesome  mouth, 
but  not  too  small  to  take  in,  without  inconvenience, 
the  copious  nourishment  which  her  robust  person  re- 
quired. Mr.  Jakes  beheld  the  lineaments  of  Christine 
taking  form  above  him  there,  and  he  could  not  with- 
draw his  eyes.  He  sat  an  hour  thus,  writing  never  a 
word,  suffering  dumbly. 

After  about  an  hour  his  lamp  went  out.  It  waned, 
little  by  little  stealing  his  vision  away.  Just  at  the  last 
it  flared  up  suddenly,  and  was  gone.  The  vision  van- 
ished in  a  burst  of  light.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
rushed  out  into  the  night. 

Where  was  he  going?  Useless  to  ask  him,  for  he 
knew  not.  But  the  purpose  which  he  had  soon  re- 
vealed itself, — in  a  few  minutes  he  was  back  at  the 


224  Mr.  Jakes 

squire's  house,  staring  up  at  the  windows,  as  he  had 
stared  up  at  the  print,  powerless  to  take  his  eyes  off. 
They  were  all  dark  except  one,  but  that  one,  was  it  not 
a  star  of  hope  ?  It  was  an  upper  window,  at  the  corner 
of  the  house,  and  beyond  it  a  light  burned.  How 
should  he  know,  or  so  much  as  guess,  that  it  was 
Cecilia's  window,  and  that  the  light  burned  because, 
with  all  her  accomplishments,  she  dared  not  go  to  sleep 
in  the  dark?  No,  the  wish  fathered  the  thought  most 
grateful, — it  was  Christine's  room.  Christine  herself 
was  beyond  that  thin  curtain.  She  was  everywhere, 
anywhere,  wherever  he  directed  his  gaze;  but  in  an 
especial  sense  she  was  there,  in  that  room. 

He  stood  until  the  dawn  straggled  up  out  of  the 
East  to  put  out  this  vision  as  the  waning  lamp  had  put 
out  the  other.  Before  the  dawn  the  inner  light  gave 
way,  and  the  window  was  like  all  the  rest,  cold  and 
gray  and  unresponsive  to  the  yearnings  of  his  heart. 
Then  people  began  to  stir,  throughout  the  village,  for 
Afton  rose  early.  He  heard  a  wagon  clatter  in  the 
distance,  and  a  fear  of  being  seen  seized  him. 

Is  there  in  all  the  catalogue  of  afflictions  the  like  of 
lovesickness  ? 

Probably  not.  Anyway,  it  is  very  afflicting,  if  you 
have  it  at  all  bad.  Its  symptoms  are  various,  and  not 
more  various  than  distressful.  At  times  your  heart 
will  stand  still.  Again,  you  suffocate.  Yet  again, 
your  head  bursts  into  a  number  of  fragments.  It  is  a 
paralysis,  but  without  the  friendly  numbness  and  in- 
difference, for  lovesickness  renders  you  only  the  more 
acutely  sensitive.  You  heartily  wish  you  were  dead, 
and  you  think  seriously  of  pistol,  poison,  or  hemp ;  but 
nothing  comes  of  it,  for  the  nnkindest  part  of  the  ail- 
ment is  a  certain  melancholy  delectableness  in  the  last 


Omnis  Amans  Amens  225 

analysis,  whereby  life  becomes  doubly  precious. 
There  remains  only  the  hope  of  starving  to  death,  for 
you  abhor  food  as  nothing  else.  Mr.  Jakes  ate  never 
a  morsel  during  more  than  twenty-four  hours  after 
leaving  the  squire's  table. 

But  for  him  there  was  more  than  lovesickness. 
Though  that  should  be  a  greater  agony  to  his  emo- 
tional, trustful,  unfortified  bosom  than  ever  it  was 
to  another,  still  it  wasn't  all,  or  even  the  worst.  The 
worst  was  his  conscience. 

What  was  this  stupendous  wretched  thing  which  had 
come  upon  him?  Crouched  among  Squire  Thornhill's 
shrubbery,  watching  the  night  out  in  dumb  misery,  he 
began  to  suspect;  and  by  morning,  as  he  crept  away, 
fearful  and  ashamed,  he  more  than  suspected.  He 
knew,  indeed;  not  as  well  as  a  man  of  larger  experi- 
ence might,  but  well  enough  to  be  put  in  a  torment  of 
self-accusation. 

The  littleness  of  his  experience,  that  worked  might- 
ily against  him  all  through.  What  acquaintance  had 
he  with  love  in  the  last  phase  whereby  it  justifies  it- 
self according  to  the  purpose  of  creation?  None  that 
was  any  good  to  him  now, — his  acquaintance  went  no 
further  than  the  sordid  perversion  of  love  which  is 
vice.  Vice  he  knew  only  too  well,  having  dwelt  in 
the  very  midst  of  it.  Only  too  well  he  knew  what 
brought  vicious  men  and  women  together  down  there 
in  the  slums.  Because  he  had  knowledge  of  no  love 
but  that,  his  conscience  pricked  him  terribly, — love 
utterly  selfish,  utterly  carnal.  His  accusing  thought 
was  that  he  was  drawn  to  this  woman  as  vicious  men 
were  drawn  to  women,  and  it  made  him  out  guilty  of 
the  basest  possible  treason  against  his  mission.  He 
had  vowed  always  to  crucify  the  carnal  self,  always  to 


226  Mr.  Jakes 

exhibit  in  his  own  person  the  spectacle  of  self  devoted 
to  sacrifice ;  yet  here  he  was  helplessly  in  the  clutch  of  a 
passion  the  most  selfish,  the  most  carnal. 

Yes,  helplessly, — no  less.  Once,  in  the  night,  there 
flashed  out  of  the  darkness  of  his  despair  a  gleam  of 
consolation. 

"  It  is  a  trial,  sent  to  strengthen  me !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  shall  rise  above  it,  and  be  the  fitter  for  my  work !  " 
He  thought  of  Jesus  tempted.  "  Behind  me,  Satan !  " 
he  said,  and  stood  up,  in  body  and  in  spirit. 

But  in  that  instant  there  was  a  movement  of  the 
curtain  at  the  window  he  was  watching.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  doing  of  some  vagrant  breeze,  or  even  no  more 
than  the  figment  of  his  fancy, — none  the  less  it  brought 
him  to  his  knees.  His  new-found  courage  fled  igno- 
miniously.  His  lofty  resolution  was  forgotten.  All 
through  him,  driving  everything  before  it,  surged  the 
thought  that  Christine's  hand  had  moved  the  curtain, 
the  hope  that  she  was  about  to  appear  to  him.  She  did 
not  appear.  The  curtain  hung  motionless.  But  Mr. 
Jakes  was  helpless.  When,  after  a  little,  he  recalled 
the  courage  that  had  come  to  him,  the  resolution  he 
had  formed,  he  strove  to  renew  them,  it  was  in  vain ; 
he  could  not  rise,  he  could  only  grovel  on  the  ground. 

He  knew  what  it  meant, — knew  that  unless  a  won- 
der should  be  wrought  in  his  behalf,  he  was  lost.  That 
was  the  sum  of  it, — he  might  as  well  account  himself 
lost  already,  for  what  wonder  was  to  be  expected  in 
behalf  of  one  found,  on  trial,  so  pitifully  wanting? 

The  day  came  on,  and  Mr.  Jakes  cowered  before  its 
light.  He  shrank  away  from  it,  into  his  bedroom, 
the  inmost  apartment  of  his  house.  'He  cast  himself 
down  on  his  couch  and  lay  there  like  a  log,  for  hours. 
In  time  he  became  thirsty,  before  long  his  throat 


Omnis  Amans  Amens  227 

burned  with  thirst, — yet  he  dared  not  stir  out  for 
water.  There  was  stale  water  in  the  pail  in  the  front 
room,  and  he  would  have  been  glad  of  that,  but  the 
front  room  had  windows  opening  on  the  street,  and 
he  was  afraid.  He  fancied  eyes  were  waiting  out  there 
to  look  into  his  soul  and  discover  how  bad  and  aban- 
doned he  was.  No,  they  needn't  look  into  his  soul, — it 
must  of  necessity  stand  proclaimed  in  his  face  what 
sort  of  a  traitor  he  was,  what  sort  of  a  vile  impostor, — 
his  only  safety  was  in  hiding  his  face.  Though  his 
thirst  should  consume  him,  it  were  easier  endured  than 
the  shame  of  being  found  out. 

Twice  somebody  knocked  at  the  door  and,  on  get- 
ting no  response,  went  peering  in  at  the  windows.  He 
could  hear  them  tramping  about  the  house,  hear  them 
discussing  his  whereabouts, — once  it  was  children,  and 
once  it  was  womenfolks.  He  felt  that  they  were  peer- 
ing in,  and  he  trembled  lest  they  somehow  catch  sight 
of  him. 

But  that  wasn't  to  last  always, — there  came  upon 
him  at  length  a  different  fear, — burst  upon  him,  for  it 
was  immensely  sudden  in  its  beginning.  All  at  once, 
out  of  nowhere,  a  terrific  question  was  shouted  at  him : 
What  if  he  should  be  prevented  from  getting  Chris- 
tine? 

A  different  fear,  distinctly.  He  no  longer  quaked 
and  cowered, — in  the  passing  of  a  second  he  was  the 
elemental  man  perceiving  his  danger  and  springing  up 
to  ward  it  off.  It  was  the  danger  of  losing  his  woman, 
the  woman  his  elemental  manhood  bade  him  get,  not 
stopping  to  consider  means,  whether  fair  or  foul. 
What  were  means  to  him,  now?  Springing  up,  Mr. 
Jakes  saw  himself,  for  a  moment,  in  the  little  glass  over 
the  wash-basin, — saw  the  savage  in  him  plainly  re- 


228  Mr.  Jakes 

vealed,  nay,  worse  than  the  savage,  the  very  beast ;  and 
he  exulted.  Let  the  world  beware !  Let  none  venture 
to  stand  in  his  way!  His  conscience  had  cast  off  its 
leash,  and  he  was  free  to  do  his  elemental  worst! 

No,  not  quite  that,  either.  His  conscience  wasn't 
altogether  done  with  him,  after  all.  He  stepped  out  of 
the  house  and  at  the  threshold  met  two  little  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl.  Something  told  him  it  was  they  who 
had  knocked  awhile  ago,  and  then  they  told  him  so 
themselves, — or  the  girl  did.  She  was  the  older  and 
did  the  talking,  comically  puffed  up  with  her  import- 
ance. They  had  brought  him  a  gift,  and  found  him 
not  at  home ;  now  they  were  come  again. 

"  Mother  baked  pies  to-day,"  lisped  the  girl,  "  and 
so  she  sent  you  one.  It's  mince,  but  if  you'd  rather 
have  apple,  Mr.  Jakes,  I'll  take  this  back  and  bring  you 
another." 

No,  his  conscience  wasn't  done  with  him. 

"  Thank  you,  the  mince  will  do  very  well,"  he  said, 
and  smiled  so  unsavagely  that  the  children,  looking  up 
into  his  face,  were  moved  to  smile  too,  and  fell  into  a 
confusion  of  bashfulness  and  scampered  off. 

Mr.  Jakes  went  back  into  the  house  with  the  pie  in 
his  hand  and  was  more  troubled  than  ever.  He  bowed 
his  head  and  wept.  After  considerable  of  that,  he  sat 
up  and  wrote  some  words  on  a  paper : 

"  There  may  be  some  who  will  ask  why  I  should  kill 
myself.  It  is  because  I  suffer  so,  and  can  see  no  end 
of  suffering." 

He  laid  the  paper  in  a  conspicuous  place  on  the  table 
and  went  out  once  more. 

The  evening  was  still  and  damp  and  close,  and  from 
the  lush  grasses  mosquitoes  swarmed  up  in  millions 
to  make  high  revel.  Given  weather  like  that,  with 


Omnis  Amans  Amens  229 

thick  grasses  to  breed  in,  and  mosquitoes  are  no  joke. 
You  are  glad  to  shun  them.  You  regret  the  business 
which  takes  you  abroad, — unless  it  is  urgent  you  stay 
at  home,  behind  your  screens.  And  so  Mr.  Jakes  met 
nobody. 

Or  almost  nobody.  It  wouldn't  do  to  say  nobody, 
because  his  wavering,  uncertain  course  (it  proceeded, 
on  the  whole,  toward  the  squire's  house,  but  deviated 
a  good  deal,  and  even  doubled  back  on  itself)  hadn't 
taken  him  a  great  way  until  he  met  a  woman  hurrying 
along  with  a  shawl  over  her  head.  The  mosquitoes 
were  amply  enough  to  make  anybody  hurry  who  wasn't 
daft.  The  woman  beat  them  off  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  drew  the  shawl  closely  about  her  face, — 
it  were  better  to  smother  than  be  eaten  up. 

And  this  woman  was  Christine. 

Queer  stories  are  told  of  the  Indian  manner  of  woo- 
ing, how  lacking  in  reserve  it  is,  or  was.  Claim  is 
made  that  in  certain  tribes  the  enamored  brave  was 
wont,  in  aboriginal  days,  to  discover  his  passion  by 
knocking  the  object  of  it  on  the  head  with  a  club. 
That  may  be  only  a  yarn,  yet  there  is  reason  to  believe 
that  the  primal  Indian,  suddenly  emerging  from  his 
shell  of  culture,  is  apt  to  go  about  this  important  busi- 
ness in  a  way  all  his  own.  Mr.  Jakes  had  lain  for 
hours  under  a  torturesome  vision,  pictured  out  of  a 
heated  imagination,  and  here,  all  at  once,  the  living 
reality  of  it  had  risen  up  before  him.  What  was  con- 
science or  anything  else  to  stay  the  storm  of  passion 
thereupon  let  loose?  How  was  he  likely  to  proceed, 
if  not  elementally,  in  the  Indian  fashion?  They  had 
come  within  two  paces  of  each  other  when  first  he 
recognized  her ;  on  the  instant,  without  ado,  he  sprang 


230  Mr.  Jakes 

at  her,  uttering  some  incoherent,  animal  cry,  and 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

The  fervid  lover,  especially  in  books,  is  greatly  given 
to  crushing  his  beloved  in  his  arms.  Mr.  Jakes  was 
fervid  enough,  and  did  his  part,  but  Christine  wasn't 
cut  out  for  hers,  either  bodily  or  in  spirit, — she  was 
in  both  respects  too  burly.  However,  she  was  con- 
siderably jostled  by  the  onset,  so  unexpected  and  so 
energetic, — a  little  more,  indeed,  and  she  must  have 
been  quite  bowled  over;  for  a  moment  she  sprawled 
helplessly,  while  Mr.  Jakes  lifted  and  tugged  at  her 
frantically,  as  if  he  would  bear  her  away.  His  strength 
was  multiplied  by  madness,  but  it  was  unequal  to  his 
purpose,  once  she  had  gathered  herself  together.  It 
was  in  no  weakling  grip  he  held  her,  but  she  rose  up 
and  shook  him  off,  as  some  magnificent  creature  of  the 
forest  might  shake  off  an  attacking  hound. 

She  left  the  greater  portion  of  her  waist  in  his  hands, 
— the  shawl  had  fallen  off  in  the  very  beginning;  she 
confronted  him  with  her  superb  shoulders  and  bosom 
bare,  and  the  sight  drove  him  wilder  than  ever.  He 
was  lower  than  the  Indian,  once  more, — a  beast.  Like 
a  hungry  beast  he  rushed  upon  her,  with  a  fierce  snarl 
as  if  in  his  desperate  desire  he  would  tear  her  in  pieces. 

But  he  tore  her  in  no  pieces  further, — he  did  not  so 
much  as  lay  a  finger  on  her.  It  was  tolerably  light 
yet,  and  when  he  was  come  near  to  her,  so  near  that 
his  hot  face  was  all  but  touching  hers,  he  caught  her 
eye,  and  it  made  him  quail.  It  was  the  very  eye  which 
had  enchained  him  in  the  first  instance, — that  viking 
eye,  so  soft  then,  but  now  so  hard,  so  like  the  steel  of 
a  sword.  There  lay  in  it  a  fearlessness,  a  calm  con- 
fidence, a  haughty  defiance,  but  these  were  not  the 


Omnis  Amans  Amens  231 

\vorst;  the  worst  was  the  look  of  supreme  disdain,  of 
unutterable  detestation.  Many  waters,  they  say,  can- 
not quench  love,  but  a  look  of  that  sort  is  very  dampen- 
ing. 

His  mood  changed  as  swiftly  as  a  thought  passes. 
He  was  minded  no  more  to  woo  her  by  violence.  In- 
stead of  that  he  would  coax  her,  in  the  manner  of  the 
cultivated  man. 

He  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  "  Come !  "  he  cried,  in 
a  melting  tone. 

She  laughed  in  his  face,  witheringly,   insultingly. 

"  I  see  myself !  "  she  sneered,  with  cool  irony. 

Then  she  left  him.  Without  a  trace  of  embarrass- 
ment, much  less  of  fear,  she  went  back  and  picked  up 
her  shawl  and  wrapped  it  about  her  shoulders;  and 
when  she  had  done  that,  she  proceeded  on  her  way 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Lovesickness  has  been  known  to  take  its  departure 
as  suddenly  and  mysteriously  as  ever  it  comes  on.  Mr. 
Jakes  stared  blankly  after  Christine  till  her  stalwart 
figure  was  quite  lost  to  sight, — the  mosquitoes  settled 
thickly  on  his  face  and  hands  and  drank  their  fill  of 
his  blood,  but  he  heeded  them  not.  The  seven  devils 
were  passing  out  of  his  bosom,  as  the  girl  was  passing 
out  of  his  vision, — presently  they  were  gone,  and  he 
was  cured. 

He  went  home.  Night  had  set  in,  by  now,  and  he 
struck  a  light,  to  discover  that  he  still  held  in  his  hand 
the  remnant  of  Christine's  waist.  He  laughed  and 
thrust  it  into  the  stove, — it  was  cotton,  and  light  and 
dry,  and  made  excellent  kindling  a  little  later.  He  pre- 
pared himself  a  cup  of  tea  and  drank  it.  He  brought 
out  a  stout  loaf  of  bread,  and  ate  fully  half  of  it,  greed- 
ily, though  it  was  dry.  Then  his  eye  discovered  the 


232  Mr.  Jakes 

mince  pie  which  the  children  had  brought  and  he  fell 
upon  it  and  devoured  it  every  crumb. 

A  man  is  always  hungry  after  a  violent  fever. 

Very  refreshing,  to  be  filled  in  that  way.  If  any- 
body knows  peace,  he  is  the  man  who  fills  his  belly 
after  twenty-four  hours  of  fasting.  Moreover  there 
was  for  Mr.  Jakes  the  relief  of  having  a  great  weight 
lifted  off  him.  He  drew  deep  breaths  and  considered 
how  glorious  it  was  to  be  free. 

Not  for  long,  though, — there  was  plenty  of  trouble 
still,  when  he  came,  as  inevitably  he  must,  to  think 
what  he  had  done,  and  what  the  upshot  of  it  might  be. 
That  was  the  rub, — what  the  upshot  might  be.  Would 
Christine  inform  against  him?  Had  there  been  wit- 
nesses,— were  there  others  to  inform  against  him? 
Such  questions  were  not  long  in  getting  themselves 
asked,  and  how  should  they  fail  to  make  him  very  un- 
comfortable indeed? 

Mr.  Jakes  was  not  too  innocent  to  understand  that  he 
had  done  a  deed  which  the  laws  of  men  denounced 
an  infamous  crime.  In  his  experience  he  had  known 
a  poor  fellow  sent  to  prison  for  life  for  doing  no  more, 
and  only  by  going  to  prison  escaping  death  at  the 
hands  of  a  furious  mob.  What  kind  of  an  outlook  did 
this  leave?  Bad  enough.  More  and  more  distinctly 
could  Mr.  Jakes  see  himself  in  the  place  of  the  wretch 
who,  for  no  worse  a  deed,  had  barely  got  off  with  his 
life  by  going  to  spend  it  all  in  ignominious  cap- 
tivity. 

His  message  to  the  world  lay  on  the  table  where  he 
had  left  it.  He  did  not  notice  it  at  once, — when  he 
did  he  crumpled  up  the  paper  and  threw  it  in  the  stove. 
He  might  kill  himself,  even  yet,  but  he  would  leave 
no  mushy  message  behind. 


Omnis  A  mans  Amens  233 

He  discussed  the  probabilities,  trying  to  look  the 
situation  fairly  in  the  face. 

Probably  Christine  would  inform  against  him. 
Probably  she  had  already  done  so.  Probably  she  had, 
or  would,  tell  the  squire.  The  squire  was  a  magistrate 
and  due  process  would  issue  forthwith,  if  it  hadn't 
already  issued.  In  a  short  time  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Jakes  would  be  behind  the  bars,  or  hanging  dead  by 
his  neck  from  some  tree.  He  tried  to  deny  the  prob- 
ability of  these  things, — he  could  not.  With  the  mem- 
ory of  that  look  in  Christine's  eyes,  it  was  impossible 
to  expect  a  better  outcome, — Christine  would  do  her 
worst. 

He  thought  of  flight.  That  was  the  first  expedient 
he  considered, — the  most  natural  and  obvious.  But 
whither?  Back  to  Dr.  Robert?  No,  no! — he  hadn't 
the  heart  to  meet  that  good,  true  man,  with  his  sense  of 
guilt  upon  him.  Not  there, — rather  to  the  forest,  his 
mother,  who  never  reproached  him.  Memories  of  the 
forest  came  sweetly  to  him.  He  thought  of  the  free 
wilds  and  declared,  in  his  trouble,  that  the  haunts  of 
men  had  nothing  so  worthy  to  offer  him.  So  he  made 
up  his  mind.  And  there  wasn't  a  moment  to  lose. 
Most  likely  the  minions  of  the  law  were  even  now 
coming  after  him, — they  must  find  their  bird  flown. 

He  snatched  up  his  hat  and  darted  out. 

The  highways  were  empty  and  the  houses  dark, — if 
people  were  not  asleep  they  were  at  all  events  very 
tranquil,  and  that  was  comfortably  significant.  'Evi- 
dently they  knew  not  what  had  happened,  or  if  they 
knew,  were  not  disposed  to  violent  measures.  Mr. 
Jakes  found  the  silence  most  reassuring,  and  he  was 
further  reassured  when  he  reached  the  squire's  house, 
for  it  was  dark  too,  from  cellar  to  garret.  He  could 


234  Mr-  Jakes 

hear  Cecilia  warbling  at  the  piano,  and  the  sound  fell 
upon  his  ear  agreeably,  not  for  its  own  sake  but  for 
what  it  indicated.  No  turmoil  there,  no  hurried  writ- 
ing up  of  papers,  no  setting  forth  of  officers  in  grim 
haste. 

The  tranquillity  all  about  him  served  to  still  his  fears, 
and  that  done,  there  was  another  remembrance  ready 
to  thrust  itself  into  his  mind,  a  remembrance  likewise 
out  of  his  life  in  the  wicked  city.  Likewise  it  had  to 
do  with  a  fellow  whom  a  woman  accused,  but  he 
stoutly  defended  himself,  denied  everything,  and  final- 
ly made  the  woman  out  a  great  liar.  In  that  connec- 
tion Mr.  Jakes  had  heard  it  laid  down  as  a  rule  of  the 
law  that  no  man  should  be  adjudged  guilty  of  a  crime 
of  that  character  on  the  testimony  of  the  woman 
alone.  Was  it  not  a  comforting  thing  to  recall?  Why 
should  he  run  away,  then  ?  He  had  only  to  deny  every- 
thing,—  it  would  be  his  word  against  Christine's,  and 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt  was  his. 

He  halted  and  faced  about  and  went  back  to  his 
house. 

He  was  willing  to  lie,  have  no  doubt  on  that  head. 
He  was  willing  to  lie,  and  bethought  himself,  deliber- 
ately and  knowing  full  well  what  he  was  about, — be- 
thought himself  what  manner  of  lie  he  should  tell, 
and  was  exceedingly  glad  to  find  that  a  very  simple, 
easily  managed  lie  would  answer.  He  had  only  to 
deny  everything,  only  to  set  his  word  squarely  against 
Christine's, — there  were  no  devious  windings  to  get 
lost  in. 


CHAPTER  VII 
ANOTHER  VIKING 

POLICE  as  well  as  other  men,  stand  ready  to  testify 
that  the  way  of  a  woman  is  curious.  Fallen  under  the 
greatest  wrong  that  can  be  done  her,  she  will  often, 
perhaps  oftenest,  choose  to  conceal ,  her  injury  and 
say  nothing  about  it  to  anyone.  Of  course  it  is  her 
misfortune  and  not  at  all  her  fault,  and  misfortune 
is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of ;  still  she  will  be  ashamed. 
She  will  burn  with  resentment,  yet  suffer  in  silence, 
lest  that  which  she  deems  a  worse  thing  befall  her, 
and  this  worse  thing  is  publicity.  And  that  is  why, 
where  she  tells  anybody,  it  is  last  of  all  the  law.  The 
processes  of  the  law  are  cruelly  public,  and  for  that 
alone,  to  say  nothing  of  other  reasons,  will  she  shun 
them.  If  she  seeks  redress,  it  is  by  channels  apart  from 
the  law, — by  unlawful  channels  even.  Christine  never 
breathed  a  word  to  the  squire,  or  to  any  soul  in  Afton ; 
but  the  very  next  day  she  went  home  to  her  brother, 
Thor  Torrelson,  a  farmer  about  six  miles  out,  and 
told  him. 

Mr.  Jakes,  meanwhile,  was  staying  closely  at  home, 
hardly  venturing  into  his  field,  much  less  the  high- 
ways and  market-place.  But  his  timidity  grew  less 
when  nothing  happened,  and  when  another  Sabbath 
came,  he  mounted  his  pulpit  and  preached.  The  wil- 

235 


236  Mr.  Jakes 

lingness  to  lie  was  in  his  heart  and  it  gave  him  a  front 
of  brass,  more  and  more  as  the  sense  of  personal  peril 
wore  off, — people  commented  on  the  marked  improve- 
ment in  his  manner,  while  as  for  the  matter  of  his  ser- 
mon, it  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  He  looked  out 
over  his  congregation  and  knew  that  nothing  against 
him  had  come  to  their  ears,  and  out  of  his  thankful- 
ness he  was  rarely  gracious.  He  smiled  and  shook 
hands  and  chatted  like  a  different  man,  and  sent  his 
flock  home  much  pleased  with  him.  Moreover,  he 
was  pleased  with  himself, — possibly  he  wouldn't  be 
called  on  to  lie,  after  all.  He  was  willing,  if  need  be, 
still  he  would  much  rather  not. 

But  though  he  should  be  safe  with  his  own  people, 
there  was  the  larger  public  for  Mr.  Jakes  to  fret  him- 
self about.  The  godless  majority,  the  publicans  and 
sinners  of  Afton,  how  stood  it  with  them  ?  Somehow, 
as  often  as  he  thought  of  the  publicans  and  sinners, 
and  that  was  oftener  and  oftener,  he  couldn't  help  but 
imagine  dire  things.  He  knew  there  must  be  a  letter 
from  Dr.  Robert  waiting  for  him  in  the  post-office, 
.and,  though  he  framed  other  excuses  for  himself, 
the  truth  was  he  dared  not  go  after  it.  He  shrank 
from  encountering  those  cynical,  offish,  unsym- 
pathetic men  who  were  not  only  ready  but  eager  to 
think  ill  of  any  minister, — a  cardinal  article  of  whose 
faith  was  a  distrust  of  all  religious  profession.  To  be 
sure,  if  the  congregation  had  heard  nothing,  there  was 
small  chance  of  the  public  at  large  having  heard  aught, 
but  for  all  that  he  feared  the  publicans  and  sinners,  as 
if  they,  with  their  skeptical,  eyes,  might  see  through 
him  and  discover  the  spot  on  his  soul.  He  let  the 
letter  lie  all  the  week.  Sunday  brought  its  access  of 
new  assurance  and  he  resolved  to  go  over  on  Monday. 


Another  Viking  237 

When  Monday  came  he  wavered  and  put  it  off  till 
Tuesday.  On  Tuesday  he  wasn't  ready,  either,  and 
put  it  off  once  more,  till  Wednesday.  Wednesday  he 
went. 

He  calculated  his  hour  to  a  nicety.  There  was  one 
mail  a  day,  due  to  arrive  at  10  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
—that,  of  course,  was  the  hour  of  hours  least  desir- 
able for  his  purpose.  But  as  this  was  the  busiest,  so, 
by  the  law  of  reaction,  the  hours  immediately  follow- 
ing were  the  dullest, — between  n  and  12  o'clock  the 
vicinity  of  the  post-office  was  usually  deserted.  Mr. 
Jakes  waited  till  half  past  1 1  before  setting  out,  yet 
when  he  turned  into  the  main  street  he  beheld  a  great 
crowd  waiting. 

What  did  it  portend? 

He  was  quick  to  suspect  the  worst.  That  the  mail 
might  be  late,  that  Tronson  the  carrier,  though  not 
often  found  waiting,  was  subject  to  mishap, — these 
the  most  natural  reflections  to  a  calm  mind  were  not 
for  Mr.  Jakes.  The  lingering  crowd  alarmed  him  pro- 
foundly,— he  construed  it  to  bode  mischief.  Why  were 
they  waiting,  unless — 

Great  God,  perhaps  they  were  going  to  hang  him 
there  and  then! 

He  came  on,  however, — whatever  his  fate  the  power 
was  not  in  him  to  evade  it  by  flight;  and  the  way 
people  looked  at  him  wasn't  calculated  to  lessen  his 
concern.  He  would  take  his  oath  they  had  never 
looked  at  him  so  before, — a  sneering  distrust  he  had 
seen  in  their  faces,  even  a  certain  hostility,  but  now 
there  was  more.  Besides,  why  should  his  arrival  be 
productive  of  so  undeniable  a  stir?  He  distinctly 
heard  several  voices  cry  out,  excitedly :  "  There  he 
comes ! " 


238  Mr.  Jakes 

He  advanced  boldly, — possibly  it  was  an  Indian  in- 
stinct which  kept  him  from  showing  the  white  feather 
no  matter  how  badly  scared  he  was ;  and  got  as  far  as 
the  door  of  the  post-office.  People  still  wore  that  un- 
wonted look,  but  they  fell  back  to  let  him  pass,  and 
none  spoke  to  him  until  just  as  he  was  entering. 
There  a  blockily  built  man,  with  a  thick  blond  beard, 
stood  suddenly  forth  in  a  threatening  manner, — there 
was  an  angry  light  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  an  ominous 
knitting  of  his  bushy  brows. 

"  Your  name  is  Jakes  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  strong 
Scandinavian  accent. 

Yes,  it  was  Jakes, — no  disputing  that.  The  crowd 
pressed  up, — they  were  publicans  and  sinners,  almost 
entirely. 

"  My  name  is  Torrelson,"  the  man  went  on.  "  I'm 
brother  to  Christine  Torrelson.  You  know  what  this 
is  for,"  and  he  snatched  a  horsewhip  from  under  his 
coat  and  fetched  it  across  Mr.  Jakes's  face. 

Here  was  easily  the  most  extraordinary  incident 
that  had  ever  taken  place  in  Afton.  People  held  their 
breath.  For  once  the  Fates  had  favored  their  corner 
of  the  pool  with  a  stone  whose  proportions  were  al- 
ready respectable,  and  not  unlikely  to  become  posi- 
tively vast.  For  of  course  the  end  was  not  yet.  What 
would  Jakes  do  about  it  ? — that  was  the  question  more 
or  less  definitely  present  in  every  mind. 

What  Jakes  would  do  he  did  quickly, — almost  too 
quickly  for  the  spectacular  effect.  About  the  next  the 
gaping,  breathless  crowd  knew,  Thor  Torrelson  lay  on 
his  back  in  the  sand  of  the  street,  unconscious,  with 
blood  oozing  from  his  nose  and  mouth. 

Jakes  had  felled  him  like  an  ox,  that  was  what  Jakes 
had  done.  Some  would  have  it,  discussing  the  affair 


Another  Viking  239 

afterwards,  that  the  blow  landed  on  Thor's  nose,  while 
others  were  confident  that  the  point  of  his  jaw  caught 
the  impact;  but  that  was  only  a  minor  detail,  any- 
way. As  to  the  main  fact  there  could  be  no  quibbling, 
— it  went  into  history  clean-cut  and  untouched  of 
doubt.  The  sturdy  Thor  Torrelson,  sinewy  and  sea- 
soned, had  gone  down  before  Jakes's  fist,  and  was 
helpless  to  rise. 

Afton  was  stunned.  Men  seemed  to  themselves  to  be 
dreaming.  They  were  awakened  by  a  voice  calling 
down  loudly  from  over  their  heads.  It  was  Squire 
Thornhill's  voice.  He  had  his  office  up  there. 

"  Bully  for  you,  Jakes !  "  he  shouted  enthusiastically. 
"  I  saw  the  whole  thing.  You  served  him  just  right. 
He  made  a  cowardly  attack  on  you.  I  hope  you've 
knocked  his  head  off !  " 

Then  the  squire  came  racing  down  the  stairs  and 
rushed  up  and  clapped  his  pastor  on  the  back  in  an 
exceedingly  gratulatory  manner, — and  that  couldn't 
help  but  affect  public  sentiment.  Thornhill  might  not 
be  the  best  liked  personage  in  the  village,  but  all  the 
same  he  stood  as  the  embodiment  of  law,  in  virtue  of 
his  magisterial  office ;  and  when  he  gave  in  his  appro- 
bation, so  unequivocally,  on  such  occasion,  it  was  apt 
to  be  decisive.  When  the  squire  clapped  Mr.  Jakes 
on  the  back  in  token  of  his  gratification,  publicans  and 
sinners  followed  suit,  figuratively.  A  fighting  parson  ? 
After  all,  nothing  appeals  to  the  heart  of  the  ungodly 
more  powerfully  than  a  fighting  parson, — the  un- 
godly enjoy  seeing  the  old  Adam  rising  superior  to 
the  feeble  restraints  of  clerical  consecration,  to  dis- 
credit them.  Then,  too,  who  isn't  fond  of  any  sort  of 
a  good  fighter,  be  he  parson  or  not?  They  carried 
Torrelson  inside,  and  noted  how  long  it  took  him  to 


240  Mr.  Jakes 

come  out  of  his  trance,  and  their  esteem  for  Mr.  Jakes 
rose  fast  and  high.  Sundry  bucks,  of  sporting  ten- 
dencies, talked  of  getting  the  new  minister  to  give 
them  lessons  in  boxing. 

And  the  new  minister  himself,  meanwhile? 

Nobody  in  all  that  throng  was  more  astonished 
than  he.  He  stared  vacantly  at  the  prostrate  figure, 
— if  he  were  actually  wondering  how  the  man  hap- 
pened to  be  lying  there,  Mr.  Jakes  wouldn't  stare 
much  differently.  And  at  the  touch  of  the  squire's 
hand  he  jumped,  as  he  had  ofttimes  jumped  at  the 
touch  of  some  lumberjack,  though  'not  with  great 
violence, — his  face  was  only  slightly  contorted,  and 
instead  of  yelling  he  gave  a  sort  of  moan.  But  in  the 
next  moment  he  faced  about  abruptly,  wavered  just 
perceptibly,  and  then  made  off  at  a  fast  walk  which 
was  almost  a  dog-trot.  All  eyes  followed  him,  of 
course.  They  saw  him  reach  the  corner  where,  if  he 
was  going  home,  he  should  turn,  and,  instead  of  turn- 
ing, keep  on,  straight  ahead.  A  little  further  and 
they  lost  him,  but  not  for  good.  A  mile  and  a  half 
out  the  road  was  visible  as  it  mounted  over  a  hill. 
All  eyes  watched  the  hill  and  saw  Mr.  Jakes  emerge, 
— he  was  running. 

There  were  no  services  in  the  Unitarian  church  the 
following  Sunday.  Officially  it  was  given  out  that 
Mr.  Jakes  had  been  called  away  by  important  business, 
but  of  course  you  might  believe  that  or  not,  as  you 
chose.  The  Unitarians,  while  asserting  themselves 
guardedly  and  with  manifest  reservations,  clearly 
wished  it  to  be  understood  that  Mr.  Jakes  had  come 
back,  after  a  short  run,  taken  wholly  for  the  sake 
of  the  exercise  (who  didn't  know  that  he  went  in  very 
largely  for  exercise?),  but  later  in  the  day  had  been 


Another  Viking  241 

called  away.  That,  too,  you  might  or  might  not  be- 
lieve. Afton  at  large  was  not  without  its  considerable 
doubts, — Mr.  Jakes  hadn't  acted  just  like  a  man  whose 
chief  thought  was  of  exercise.  If  he  hadn't  acted 
like  a  man  out  of  his  wits,  then  Afton  at  large  would 
eat  its  hat. 

But  there  was  a  more  momentous  question, — was  he 
coming  back  ?  Certainly  he  was,  the  Unitarians  made 
answer;  just  as  soon  as  his  business  was  attended  to, 
he  would  return  and  resume  regular  services.  His 
absence  might  extend  over  a  few  weeks,  perhaps,  but 
more  likely  only  a  few  days.  And  Afton  at  large  hoped 
the  Unitarians  might  be  right, — everybody,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  wanted  Mr.  Jakes  back. 

'He  came.  It  was  the  succeeding  Tuesday,  toward 
evening,  when  Afton  beheld  his  face  once  more.  A 
stranger  brought  him,  driving  a  team  of  bronchos, 
which  he  lodged  at  the  livery-stable  for  the  night; 
and  the  word  went  out  that  he  was  the  French  doctor 
from  Bear  Creek.  He  spent  his  time  with  Mr.  Jakes, 
and  at  intervals,  until  a  late  hour,  they  two  could  be 
heard  singing  together.  The  singing  wasn't  half  bad, 
and  some  of  the  neighbors  sat  up  awhile  to  listen  to  it. 

Early  next  morning  the  stranger  drove  away,  alone. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

UNTO  THE  GENTILES  FOOLISHNESS 

SUCH  untoward  incidents  right  at  the  start  were 
not  helpful  to  Mr.  Jakes's  mission.  Scandal  is  never 
busier  or  swifter  than  in  a  little  village,  even  though, 
in  order  to  find  anything  to  speak  of,  it  has  to  make 
much  ado  about  nothing;  and  his  affairs  were  con- 
siderably better  than  nothing.  Afton  speedily  guessed 
out  a  complete  history  of  the  Torrelson  encounter, — 
a  number  of  complete  histories,  in  fact,  for  wasn't 
one  man's  guess  as  good  as  another's?  People  wrere 
free  to  believe  what  they  liked,  and  they  made  the 
fullest  use  of  their  freedom.  Absurd,  contradictory, 
all  else  to  make  them  incredible,  the  reports  were, — 
but  whatever  they  might  be  in  other  respects,  they  were 
always  damaging.  The  mildest  version,  the  version 
which  the  pastor's  warmest  adherents  in  his  own 
society  rested  on, — even  that  admitted  that  Mr.  Jakes 
had  got  himself  into  some  sort  of  a  woman-scrape,  and 
wasn't  a  woman-scrape  the  most  damaging  thing  in  the 
world  ? 

Yet  living  the  scandal  down  wasn't  wholly  uphill 
work, — after  all  there  were  favoring  declivities,  so  to 
say.  It  was  a  poor  sort  of  a  help,  perhaps,  but  a  help 
nevertheless,  that  the  very  persons  who  exulted  most 

242 


Unto  the  Gentiles  Foolishness        243 

in  his  downfall  from  grace,  who  conceived  the  worst 
stories  about  him,  were  at  the  same  time  the  persons 
who  could  least  help  respecting  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  vindicated  his  manhood.  Mr.  Jakes  took  no 
credit  for  that,  would  have  gladly  confessed  to  any- 
body that  it  was  the  merest  accident, — yet  credit  he  got 
for  it,  notwithstanding,  and  it  made  the  living  down 
of  the  scandal  easier.  In  every  rallying-place  of  the 
publicans  and  sinners  the  parson  would  be  raked  fore 
and  aft  with  a  hot  fire  of  calumny,  but  sooner  or  later 
there  would  be  voices  raised  to  commend  the  fighting- 
man  he  had  shown  himself  to  be.  That  he  had  be- 
trayed Torrelson's  pretty  sister,  these  men  couldn't 
be  got  to  doubt,  but  after  all,  what  of  it  ?  Apart  from 
the  hypocrisy  of  a  minister  being  the  guilty  party,  this 
was  no  very  serious  crime, — some  even  thought  it  no 
crime  at  all ;  and  crime  or  no  crime,  the  lad  who  could 
put  up  his  dukes  in  such  a  fashion  wasn't  to  be  despised 
utterly. 

Squire  Thornhill's  attitude  was  not  so  very  different, 
and  it  helped,  too.  "  Are  we  a  lot  of  Puritans?  "  the 
squire  would  ask,  when  other  Unitarians  made  demur, 
and  inasmuch  as  the  name  of  Puritans  was  a  hissing 
and  a  byword  to  this  liberal  sect,  the  question  had  a 
strongly  silencing  effect.  Not  that  Thornhill  admitted 
Mr.  Jakes's  guilt, — on  the  contrary,  he  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  go  himself  and  ask  the  Torrelsons  what 
the  matter  was,  and  having  got  nothing  out  of  them 
that  even  remotely  squinted  toward  an  accusation, 
was  convinced  of  Mr.  Jakes's  innocence  of  all  inten- 
tional wrong;  but  even  granting  the  other  thing  (so  the 
squire  put  the  case)  why  should  they  mind  ?  Ministers 
weren't  perfect  any  more  than  other  men.  Granting 
even  that  something  quite  deplorable  had  taken  place, 


244  Mr.   Jakes 

it  remained  a  fact  that  Mr.  Jakes  was  doing  a  great 
work  for  pure  religion,  and  might  be  expected,  if 
suffered  to  develop,  to  do  yet  a  greater. 

It  was  true  Mr.  Jakes  had  made  a  hit.  Everybody 
declared,  though  some  might  declare  it  grudgingly, 
that  his  sermons  were  a  power.  Persons  who  had  not 
gone  to  church  in  years,  some  even  who  had  never 
gone  in  all  their  lives,  were  going  now,  and  going 
again,  until  they  were  regular  attendants.  It  was  no 
rare  thing,  any  more,  for  the  ushers  to  have  to  fetch 
chairs,  to  seat  the  people,  and  proposals  for  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  church  began  to  be  put  forward.  The 
more  thoughtful  observed  a  change  in  the  spiritual  life 
of  the  community,  and  a  change  for  the  better, — Mr. 
Jakes  had  got  people  interested  in  better  things. 
Naturally,  since  he  was  in  the  balance  for  weighing, 
none  of  his  shortcomings  were  overlooked,  and  there 
was  especially  his  lack  of  social  graces.  But  in  that 
connection  the  squire,  constituting  himself  his  pastor's 
advocate,  had  only  to  remind  folks  of  the  last 
incumbent  but  one;  he  had  shone  socially,  his  fund 
of  small-talk  was  such  that  he  could  out-prattle  any 
woman  in  town ;  yet  he  was  a  sorry  ass  in  comparison 
with  Mr.  Jakes, — nobody  could  well  deny  that. 

And  so  that  particular  cloud  took  itself  off  at  length. 

But  there  remained  still  the  most  serious  obstacle  he 
had  to  encounter,  and  that  was  the  incurable  dryness 
of  the  vineyard  where  he  labored.  Afton  was  a 
meager  village,  and  its  people  villagers,  with  all  the 
term  implies.  Their  emotions  were  stingy, — they 
were  not  to  be  moved,  as  men  in  thick  masses  are, 
through  their  feelings ;  that  was  the  worst,  for  his  mis- 
sion. Their  close  watchfulness  of  one  another  served  to 
make  them  stiffly  conscious  and  averse  to  giving  them- 


Unto  the  Gentiles  Foolishness        245 

selves  up  to  any  display  of  sensibility ;  if  sometimes  he 
got  them  going  in  that  direction,  it  was  only  to  see 
them  catch  themselves  and  draw  coldly  back.  He 
sowed  copiously,  in  his  own  fashion, — that  one  lapse, 
it  was  dreadful,  but  it  was  all.  For  the  rest  he  held 
steadfastly  to  the  purpose  he  had  avowed, — and  the 
most  he  achieved  was  to  get  himself  talked  about. 
Endlessly  talked  about.  Wherever  two  or  three  were 
gathered  together,  his  name  was  sure  to  come  up; 
people  were  always  asking  one  another  what  strange 
thing  he  had  been  up  to  last. 

And  still  his  mission  wasn't  absolutely  barren, — 
there  was  a  harvest,  of  such  fruit  as  he  would 
have,  though  scanty.  And  rather  curiously,  too,  this 
figurative  reaping  was  the  effect,  in  a  sense,  of  a  certain 
literal  sowing.  That  is  to  say,  it  might  never  have 
come  about  only  for  his  planting  his  two  or  three  acres 
of  poor  land  to  melons. 

Mr.  Jakes  choosing  to  plant  melons  was  voted  a 
particularly  strange  thing, — in  its  day  it  made  talk 
and  yet  more  talk.  Men  called  him  crazy.  Melons 
on  such  land,  light  always  and  now  moreover  worn 
out  with  repeated  croppings?  Why,  a  five-year-old 
boy  ought  to  know  better.  Melons,  of  course,  had  to 
have  the  richest  ground,  and  even  then  the  chances 
were  so  strongly  against  their  maturing,  in  the  average 
season,  that  no  prudent  man  ever  gave  them  much  of 
his  room  or  of  his  time.  Anybody  could  tell  him  that 
and  a  number  did, — Mr.  Jakes  wasn't  left  in  the  dark 
as  to  the  egregious  error  he  was  falling  into;  but  he 
wouldn't  be  set  right.  Was  ever  such  obstinacy 
encountered  by  evangels  of  good  advice  before?  He 
could  answer  no  argument,  he  could  not  so  much  as 
conceal  the  very  real  disquiet  into  which  argument 


246  Mr.  Jakes 

threw  him, — yet  he  persisted  in  his  folly  and  planted 
every  foot  of  his  land  to  melons.  The  result  ?  Well, 
the  result  was  staggering,  no  less.  Afton  was  pretty 
much  inclined  to  doubt  its  senses,  to  question  if  it  were 
not  somehow  the  victim  of  an  illusion,  when  those 
melons  sprang  up  thriftily  and  flourished.  There 
really  was  a  suggestion  of  the  uncanny  about  it, — about 
a  crop  prospering  squarely  in  the  face  of  an  enlightened 
public  sentiment.  Afton  in  all  confidence  looked  for 
sickly,  yellow  ineffectual  vines  to  mock  Mr.  Jakes's 
labors  and  punish  his  pigheadedness,  and  there 
appeared  instead  a  stout  and  virile  growth  which 
waxed  and  waxed  until  the  little  field  lay  under  a 
canopy  of  broad  leaves  and  made  itself  gay  with  yellow 
blossoms. 

Byron,  postmaster  and  merchant,  doubtless  shared 
in  the  general  astonishment,  but  he  was  not  too 
astonished  to  think  of  the  practical  bearings;  melons 
were  melons,  whether  grown  by  a  miracle  or  what 
not, — that  was  substantially  the  reflection  which  sug- 
gested itself  to  Byron.  He  was  sedulously  attentive 
to  his  official  duties,  having  rigid  notions  touching  the 
responsibilities  of  a  federal  functionary,  and  it  betrayed 
something  uncommon  in  the  wind  when  he  left  his 
wife  and  deputy  to  hand  out  the  mail  for  a  spell,  one 
August  day;  and  the  purpose  of  his  leaving  was  to 
drop  up  and  call  on  Mr.  Jakes.  The  minister  was 
hoeing  in  his  field,  at  the  time,  and  that  suited  Byron 
very  well, — it  afforded  him  the  opportunity  to  size  up 
the  melons  without  seeming  to  be  too  interested. 
That  was  the  instinct  of  the  trader,  not  to  act  too  eager 
like. 

"  Mornin',  elder ! "  he  called  out,  cheerily,  from 
quite  a  distance. 


Unto  the  Gentiles  Foolishness        247 

Mr.  Jakes  gave  back  the  greeting-  in  kind.  He  was 
always  glad  to  see  anybody. 

"  Melons  lookin'  fine,"  Byron  observed,  in  an  off- 
hand manner. 

For  that  sentiment  Mr.  Jakes  returned  his  thanks, 
taking  it  as  a  compliment. 

Byron  stooped  down  to  handle  a  particularly  strik- 
ing specimen  of  the  fruit.  "  Call  'em  the  gennywine 
Rocky  Ford,  eh?" 

Mr.  Jakes  didn't  call  them  anything  but  melons, — 
they  might  be  the  Rocky  Ford  for  aught  he  knew. 

"  They  look  some  like  the  pitcher  of  the  Rocky 
Ford,"  said  Byron,  guardedly.  "  Figgered  any  on 
'bout  how  you're  a-goin'  to  git  red  of  'em,  Mr.  Jakes?  " 

Well,  no,  only  in  a  very  general  way. 

"  Maybe  you'd  kinder  like  to  have  somebody  take 
'em  off  your  hands,  sort  of?  " 

Decidedly.  Mr.  Jakes  would  like  nothing  bet- 
ter. 

"  Hum !  'Bout  how  much  do  ye  think  of  gittin' 
out  of  'em?"  Byron  was  vastly  guarded,  just  here, 
against  displaying  solicitude.  But  when  Mr.  Jakes 
made  answer  that  he  had  hoped  the  melons  might 
fetch  enough  to  pay  what  he  owed,  the  mask  of  the 
trader  instantly  fell. 

"  By  gum !  "  Byron  exclaimed,  staring  incredu- 
lously. "  Scuse  my  strong  language,  elder,"  he  added, 
in  the  note  of  sincere  apology,  "  but  you  don't  want 
much.  I  shan't  take  no  advantage  of  ye,  though. 
All  I  want's  fair  pay  for  my  trouble,  an'  I'll  see't  you 
git  whatever  more  there  is  in  it.  You  let  me  have  the 
melons,  just  as  they  lay  in  the  field,  an'  I'll  mark  off 
whatever  you  owe  me  an'  give  ye  credit  for  a  hundred 
dollars.  Most  likely  I  can  do  better'n  that  by  ye. 


248  Mr.  Jakes 

Course  you  understand  it  depends  on  how  the  market 
holds  up.  I  figger  your  melons  is  a-goin'  to  be  ripe 
all  the  way  from  ten  days  to  two  weeks  ahead  of  any- 
thing in  these  parts,  an'  my  notion  is  to  git  plenty  of 
teams  an'  rush  'em  right  to  the  city  while  the  iron's 
hot.  I'll  do  what  I  say,  anyway,  and  most  likely  some 
better.  I  won't  take  no  advantage  of  ye.  Is't  a 
bargain,  Mr.  Jakes?" 

It  was  a  bargain. 

Byron  had  no  time  to  stop  and  visit,  with  his  official 
duties  calling  him  back, — he  was  already  making  off, 
with  some  commonplace  remark  to  soften  the  abrupt- 
ness of  his  going.  But  at  the  fence  he  faced  about  and 
shouted : 

"  Look  out  for  the  pesky  boys !  " 

What  boys  ?     Mr.  Jakes  didn't  understand. 

"What  boys?"  Byron  repeated,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Lord  only  knows  what  boys.  Any  boys.  All  boys. 
The  boy  don't  live  that  won't  steal  melons.  Look  out 
for  'em,  elder.  They'll  steal  every  last  melon,  if  ye 
don't" 

And  Byron  went  his  way. 

A  week  later  he  came  again  and  looked  the  melons 
over.  "  A  leetle  more  sun  won't  hurt  'em,"  he  said. 
On  the  following  Saturday  he  notified  Mr.  Jakes  that 
he  would  send  the  teams  in  on  Monday. 

But  the  harvest  was  destined  for  the  day  between, 
which  was  the  Sabbath. 

Mr.  Jakes  chose  to  preach  briefly  that  morning,  so 
briefly  that  he  sent  his  congregation  away  a  little  after 
eleven  o'clock.  And  going  home,  he  chose  to  take  a 
roundabout  way.  The  effect  was  that  he  arrived  full 
half  an  hour  sooner  than  anybody  acquainted  with  his 


Unto  the  Gentiles  Foolishness        249 

habits  would  be  expecting  him  and  entered  the  house 
by  the  front  without  going  in  sight  of  the  field. 

For  his  own  information  he  had  no  need  to  go  in 
sight  of  the  field, — his  ears  sufficiently  told  him  that 
the  Goths  were  at  his  gates.  He  was  quite  prepared 
for  the  spectacle  which  met  his  eyes  at  once  he  passed 
through  to  the  little  porch  in  the  rear, — the  spectacle 
of  a  swarm  of  boys,  big  and  little,  some  almost  men 
and  some  in  knickerbockers, — filling  his  field  and 
destroying  his  melons. 

He  stood  a  moment  watching  them, — quite  unob- 
served, so  intent  were  they  on  their  mischief. 
Then,  very  quietly,  he  stepped  back  and  brought  out 
a  chair  and  a  book,  and  sat  down  to  read. 

It  was  in  that  posture  they  discovered  him.  They 
were  startled,  as  the  word  went  round,  and,  for  a 
little,  frightened;  not  inconceivably  they  would  be- 
think them  of  the  mighty  fist  which  had  laid  Thor 
Torrelson  low, — anyway  they  took  to  their  heels,  the 
whole  party  of  them,  big  boys  ahead,  little  boys  behind, 
cursing  and  screaming.  But  when  they  had  got  to 
the  fence,  and  still  Mr.  Jakes  sat  reading,  their  panic 
left  them,  and  they  were  fired  afresh  with  wanton 
insolence.  Nothing  would  do  them  now  but  they  must 
go  back  and  finish  the  havoc  they  had  begun.  Once 
more  they  overran  the  field,  nor  desisted  till  they  had 
broken  all  the  melons,  and  uprooted  all  the  vines. 
Not  a  growing  thing  but  a  few  weeds  remained  in  the 
field,  as  they  finally  betook  themselves  off,  whooping 
insultingly. 

That  was  in  a  very  few  minutes,  for  the  boys  worked 
fast ;  but  for  two  hours  Mr.  Jakes  sat  on  his  stoop,  with 
the  book  in  his  hand.  During  so  long  a  time  he 
fought  his  passion,  his  anger  flaming  high  within  him, 


250  Mr.  Jakes 

never  in  his  life  higher.  With  all  his  heart  he  could 
have  gone  forth  and  slaughtered  those  boys,  beat  them 
and  broken  them  as  they  had  beat  and  broken  his 
melons,  strewn  the  ground  with  their  mangled  corpses 
as  they  had  strewn  his  harvest, — in  short,  the  savage 
in  him  swelled  and  fumed,  until  he  was  near  bursting. 
But  he  put  it  down.  The  fight  took  about  all  his 
strength,  though.  When,  at  length,  he  laid  aside  his 
book,  not  a  letter  of  which  had  he  consciously  seen,  he 
was  fainting  weak,  and  in  a  bath  of  sweat. 

The  end  was  not  yet,  however. 

It  was  well  along  in  the  evening,  not  far  from  nine 
o'clock,  and  Mr.  Jakes  was  peacefully  busied  with  some 
pastoral  or  domestic  affair,  his  anger  all  gone,  when 
there  came  footfalls  just  outside  his  door,  and  then 
after  a  moment,  a  timid  knock.  He  opened,  and  his 
lamp  disclosed  a  well-grown  boy,  fifteen  or  sixteen 
years  old,  who  in  a  husky,  faltering  voice  asked  if  he 
might  come  in.  Of  course  he  might,  and  welcome, — 
and  he  did,  and  in  the  better  light  it  appeared  that  he 
had  been  crying.  He  was  a  big  boy,  and  Mr.  Jakes 
regarded  him  with  concern, — it  was  no  light  matter 
when  a  boy  who  was  almost  a  man  would  give  way  so. 

Nor  was  he  done  crying.  No  sooner  was  he  in  than 
he  walked  to  the  table  and  laid  down  a  handful  of 
coins ;  and  with  that  his  tears  flowed  afresh. 

"  It's  all  I've  got,"  he  blubbered,  "  but  I'm  going  to 
work  to-morrow  and  earn  more.  I  can  get  a  job  with 
a  threshing-crew,  and  I'll  work  till  I've  paid  you  every 
cent." 

This  was  all  very  singular.  "  You've  made  some 
mistake,"  said  Mr.  Jakes. 

"  Not  now,"  the  boy  replied,  gulping  hard.  "  I've 
been  making  a  mistake  all  my  life,  but  not  now." 


Unto  the  Gentiles  Foolishness        251 

"  You  mean  this  money  for  me  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir." 

"  But  you  owe  me  nothing.     What  is  it  for?  " 
"  For  the  melons.     I  was  here  to-day,  and  helped 
tear  up  your  vines.     I'm  going  to  pay  for  them  all." 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  BRAND  FROM  THE  BURNING 

MR.  JAKES  had  two  reasons  for  being  glad, — a  big 
one  and  a  little  one.  The  loss  of  his  melons  was  to 
be  made  good, — that  was  the  little  one  ;  and  it  was  so 
very  little  relatively,  that  he  overlooked  it  altogether. 
What  was  the  loss  of  all  the  melons  in  the  world,  in 
comparison  with  the  winning  of  a  soul?  That  was 
his  big  reason  for  being  glad,  the  only  reason  he 
thought  of, — a  soul  won,  a  heart  made  humble  and 
contrite,  for  there  was  no  doubting  the  boy's  con- 
trition. 

As  the  testimony  stood  he  was  not  a  tremendously 
guilty  fellow, — he  had  done  no  more  than  rob  his 
neighbor's  melon-patch,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind 
since  time  out  of  mind.  He  was  a  brand  snatched 
from  the  burning,  perhaps,  but  the  burning  was  rather 
a  mild  and  unthreatening  affair,  withal.  Yet  even  on 
such  a  showing,  Mr.  Jakes  was  glad, — repentance  was 
repentance  and  the  one  thing  needful. 

"  Let's  talk  about  it ! "  quoth  he,  and  the  boy  was 
mightily  willing,  for  the  relief  of  his  burdened  con- 
science. 

And  so  the  whole  story  came  out,  for  there  was 
further  testimony, — only  the  least  of  it  had  been  told. 

Willie  Sanders  (the  boy's  name)  was  the  only  child 
252 


A  Brand  From  the  Burning          253 

of  parents  whose  one  great  fault  was  that  they  loved 
him  too  ardently  to  love  wisely.  They  put  no  restraint 
on  him,  and  as  if  that  weren't  bad  enough,  they 
supplied  him  with  money  to  spend  as  he  liked  without 
accounting.  This  money  had  been  his  especial  undoing. 
Because  of  it  dissolute  boys  much  older  than  himself, 
and  even  dissolute  men,  cultivated  his  acquaintance, 
and  their  condescension  so  turned  his  young  head  that 
he  gave  himself  up  to  their  leadings.  Long  ago  they 
had  taught  him  to  drink  beer  and  use  tobacco  in  every 
form.  He  detested  both,  at  first,  especially  the  beer, 
and  thought  he  had  never  tasted  anything  so  vile; 
but  he  wished  to  be  addicted  to  it  as  a  mark  of  man- 
liness. He  had  been  very  drunk,  once,  and  more 
than  a  little  drunk  several  times.  Of  this  his  parents 
knew  nothing, — the  other  boys  kept  him  in  a  hay-mow 
over  night  till  he  sobered  up.  He  woke  up  miserably 
sick,  after  that  debauch,  but  he  was  prouder  than  ever 
before  in  all  his  life.  Because  he  had  been  really  and 
truly  drunk,  so  drunk  that  he  had  to  be  carried,  he 
fancied  he  had  made  a  long  step  forward. 

But  that  wasn't  the  worst.  Along  with  those  older 
boys  and  young  men,  wrho  cherished  him  for  his 
money,  he  got  in  the  way  of  going  to  tough  dances, 
out  in  the  country.  These  were  held  at  the  house  of 
some  farmer  not  over  particular,  and  plenty  of  liquor 
was  the  invariable  accompaniment.  At  one  of  these 
dances  Willie  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  a  year  older  than 
himself,  and  she  made  him  believe  she  was  very  much 
in  love  with  him.  She  was  hardened  to  all  manner  of 
sin,  and  obtained  a  strong  influence  over  him.  He 
was  even  prouder  of  their  wretched  relations  than  he 
had  been  of  getting  drunk.  To  be  in  love,  to  have 
a  woman  of  his  own,  that  seemed  to  make  him  out 


254  Mr.  Jakes 

a  man  at  once.  On  one  occasion,  at  an  uncommonly 
tough  dance,  another  fellow  tried  to  get  the  girl  away 
from  him,  and  they  two  had  a  fierce  fight.  The  other 
fellow  got  the  better  of  him  and  was  beating  him 
soundly,  when  Willie  pulled  a  knife  and  stabbed  the 
boy  in  the  breast,  and  though  he  inflicted  but  a  slight 
wound,  he  was  thoroughly  in  a  killing  mood  and  felt 
only  regret  that  he  hadn't  accomplished  worse.  On 
such  food  he  fed  his  vanity,  doubting  not  that  he  was 
not  only  a  man,  but  a  bad  man,  a  very  dangerous  chap. 
He  was  for  marrying  the  girl,  hereupon,  in  order  to 
make  sure  of  her,  and  she  avowed  herself  willing,  but 
her  father  and  mother  found  out  what  was  in  the 
wind  and  they  were  unalterably  opposed.  There  was 
a  sister  still  younger,  who  had  likewise  her  lover,  and 
they,  too,  would  fain  marry,  only  to  be  met  with  the 
parental  interdict.  This  other  lover  and  Willie,  swell- 
ing with  importance  and  affronted  dignity,  went  out  to 
the  girls'  home  to  overawe  the  old  man,  as  they  called 
him,  and  got  themselves  unceremoniously  kicked  off 
the  porch. 

By  this  insult  they  were  made  foaming  angry.  The 
old  man  had  treated  them  like  children,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  injurious  to  their  pride  than  that.  His 
objection  to  their  suit  was  frankly  grounded  on  their 
extreme  youth, — he  wouldn't  have  his  girls  wasting 
their  time  with  a  couple  of  puppies  who  hadn't  a  penny 
except  as  their  folks  gave  it  to  them.  There  was  no 
enduring  to  let  the  matter  rest  there.  They  forthwith 
began,  Willie  proposing  and  the  other  boy  assenting, 
to  concert  measures  of  vengeance. 

It  was  no  trifling  reprisal  which  they  hit  upon. 

"  Will  you  believe,"  said  Willie,  looking  up  at  Mr. 
Jakes  in  pained  wonder,  as  if  his  story  were  a  revela- 


A  Brand  From  the  Burning         255 

tion  to  himself,  "  that  we  have  planned  to  go  out  there 
to-morrow  night,  and  kill  that  man  and  woman  ?  " 

Not  easy  to  believe,  certainly.  "  You  never  would 
do  such  a  thing,"  said  Mr.  Jakes  aghast.  "  How  could 
you?" 

Willie  groaned.  "  I  wish  I  could  say  that, — I  can't. 
The  gun  I  was  going  to  do  my  part  with  is  hid  in  our 
barn  this  minute.  It's  a  Winchester  rifle  I  stole  from 
the  blacksmith-shop,  and  the  other  boy  has  a  double- 
barreled  shotgun,  loaded  with  buckshot.  The  girls  are 
in  the  scheme  and  will  be  looking  for  us  as  soon  as  it 
is  dark.  They  are  going  to  get  the  family  bunched 
round  the  lamp  in  the  front  room,  playing  cards. 
We're  to  whistle,  so  the  girls  can  get  out  of  the  way, 
and  then  we're  to  let  drive  with  both  guns,  through 
the  window.  That's  the  plan,  and  only  for  what's 
happened  to  me  to-day " 

'It  was  too  horrible.  "  Willie,  Willie !  "  Mr.  Jakes 
broke  in.  "  It's  a  dream.  You've  been  asleep  and 
dreaming." 

"  No,  no,  it's  all  true, — I  was  going  to  do  just  as  I 
tell  you.  I  never  held  back  a  minute,  or  had  any 
thought  to  give  up.  Sometimes  I've  wondered  if  the 
other  boy  was  gritty  enough,  and  I  had  my  mind  all 
made  up,  if  he  showed  the  white  feather,  I'd  kill  him 
too.  I'd  kill  anybody  that  got  in  my  way,  to  show 
them  I  wasn't  to  be  trifled  with." 

"  Oh,  surely  not,  Willie.  Think  how  little  reason 
you  had.  If  you  wanted  that  bad  girl,  you  could  run 
away  with  her.  You  needn't  kill  anybody  in  order  to 
get  her." 

"  I  wanted  to  kill  somebody.  I  don't  believe  I  cared 
so  much  about  the  girl  as  I  did  about  doing  something 


256  Mr.  Jakes 

that  would  make  me  out  a  bad  man,  that  everybody 
would  be  afraid  of." 

None  of  the  bad  man  about  him  now,  though, — that 
spirit  was  all  gone  out.  He  heaved  a  big  sigh, — the 
hardest  part  of  his  confession  was  done  with, — and 
went  on  to  better  things: 

"  This  morning  I  met  some  of  the  fellows,  and  they 
told  me  they  were  after  your  melons.  They  wanted 
me  to  go  along.  It  was  pretty  small  business,  I 
thought,  for  a  man  like  me,  but  it  would  help  pass 
away  the  time,  and  so  I  went.  When  we  saw  you  out 
there  on  the  porch,  the  rest  wanted  to  quit,  but  I  was 
ashamed  to  run  away,  and  I  got  them  to  go  back.  I 
wanted  to  show  I  wasn't  afraid,  and  so  I  started  pull- 
ing up  the  vines,  and  the  others  followed  me.  I 
wanted  you  to  come  out,  so  I  could  fight  you.  I  had  a 
dirk-knife  in  my  coat  and  I  wanted  a  chance  to  use  it 
on  you.  I  didn't  seem  to  be  thinking  of  a  thing  but 
acting  bad,  to  make  people  afraid  of  me.  But  after 
we'd  done  the  mischief  and  went  away  and  I  was  alone, 
somehow  I  got  to  feeling  queer.  I  couldn't  tell  why 
it  was,  but  all  the  time  I  was  thinking  of  you  out  there 
on  the  stoop  and  doing  nothing  to  us  for  smashing 
your  melons,  and  I  was  thinking,  too,  about  your  being 
a  poor  man  and  needing  the  money  you'd  get  by  sell- 
ing the  melons,  and  the  first  I  knew  I  was  sort  of  sorry 
for  you.  Then  I  tried  to  say  I  didn't  care, — bad  men 
never  cared.  I  called  you  a  coward  for  not  doing 
something  to  stop  us,  or  something  to  pay  us  back, 
but  it  wouldn't  work,  and  pretty  soon  I  was  wondering 
if  I  wasn't  a  coward  myself.  I  went  and  locked  my- 
self in  the  barn  with  my  gun,  and  looked  it  over  to 
see  if  it  was  all  ready, — I  thought  that  would  keep  my 
mind  away  from  you,  but  it  didn't.  All  the  time  I 


A  Brand  From  the  Burning         257 

could  see  you  sitting  there.  I  don't  know  how  the 
idea  got  in  my  head,  but  one  thing  seemed  to  lead  to 
another  and  before  long  the  sight  of  the  gun  was  mak- 
ing me  sort  of  sick.  I  wanted  to  keep  my  mind  on 
the  great  thing  I  was  going  to  do,  but  somehow  it 
didn't  seem  a  great  thing  any  more,  to  be  shooting 
people  through  a  window  after  dark,  when  they  didn't 
have  a  chance  for  themselves.  I  remembered  the  girls, 
how  they  was  willing  to  help  kill  their  own  mother, 
and  I  remembered  my  mother,  and  that  was  when  I 
got  to  crying.  I've  been  crying  about  ever  since.  I 
didn't  go  in  to  supper,  and  mother  came  calling  me, 
and  I  couldn't  face  her  for  all  the  world.  I  answered 
her,  though,  and  told  her  I  didn't  want  any  supper, 
and  I  could  see  she  thought  I  was  sick  and  she  was 
worried,  and  somehow  I  understood  better  than  ever 
how  good  a  friend  a  mother  is,  and  here  I  was  getting 
those  girls  to  help  kill  their  mother.  She  wasn't  a 
good  woman,  like  my  mother,  but  she  was  their 
mother  just  the  same,  and  I  was  sicker  and  sicker,  that 
is,  in  my  mind.  I  told  mother  I'd  rather  walk  awhile, 
and  not  to  worry  about  me,  but  I  know  she  did,  and 
she's  worrying  now,  but  she'll  be  glad  when  she  knows 
what's  happened  to  me.  I  walked  all  over,  not  think- 
ing where,  and  cried  and  cried,  feeling  awful  bad 
when  I  thought  of  what  I'd  been  going  to  do,  and  aw- 
ful good  when  I  remembered  I  hadn't  done  it  yet,  and 
I  had  you  in  mind  all  the  time,  and  after  awhile  I 
turned  down  here,  without  really  meaning  to.  Some- 
how it  seemed  as  if  you'd  done  a  great  thing  for  me, 
and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  and  own  up,  but  it  wasn't 
easy  to  come  in,  and  so  I've  been  going  back  and  forth 
for  an  hour,  wishing  to  come  in,  but  not  knowing  how, 
and  then  I  came.  This  money  is  what  I've  been  sav- 


258  Mr.  Jakes 

ing  up  to  take  me  and  the  girl  away.  It's  not  near 
enough  to  pay  for  the  melons,  but  I'm  going  to  work 
to-morrow  and  earn  more.  I'm  going  to  pay  you 
every  cent." 

Mr.  Jakes  was  so  overjoyed  that  he  shed  tears  him- 
self, and  embraced  the  boy,  impulsively,  like  a  French- 
man. 

"  You  will  keep  your  money,"  he  cried.  "  My  mel- 
ons are  paid  for,  a  hundred  times  over.  But  you  will 
go  to  work  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  go  to  work  with 
you.  We  two  will  go  out  together." 

Tongues  wagged  when  Afton  saw  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Jakes  engaged  in  common  labor  in  the  fields.  Of 
course  everybody  knew  about  the  destruction  of  his 
melons,  and  how  he  had  permitted  it,  or  part  of  it  at 
least.  But  astonishing  as  that  conduct  was,  Afton 
found  it  less  so  than  his  complete  omission  of  any 
steps  looking  to  the  punishment  of  the  marauders. 
Squire  Thornhill  was  keen  to  prosecute,  but  Mr. 
Jakes  would  do  nothing,  wouldn't  undertake  to  iden- 
tify a  single  boy. 

Willie  Sanders  came  in  for  considerable  discussion, 
too,  he  was  such  a  different  fellow,  so  industrious, 
and  so  attached  to  Mr.  Jakes.  Willie's  former  com- 
panions gave  him  their  unreserved  contempt,  saying 
he  had  got  religion. 


CHAPTER  X 

FEMINA  EST  VARIUM 

THERE  is  often  to  be  found,  in  the  hamlet  where 
everybody  knows  everybody,  a  certain  woman  whose 
chief  part  in  life  seems  to  be  to  keep  jealous  wives  in 
a  ferment.  Her  reputation  is  anything  but  good,  yet 
nobody  knows  just  how  far  she  deserves  it.  On  the 
surface  she  is  dashing,  decidedly  pretty,  has  a  style 
about  her  that  is  somewhat  bold  and  free  according  to 
rustic  standards,  and  that  is  all.  As  to  what  she  may 
be  under  the  rose  there  is  only  opinion,  though  a  great 
diversity  of  that.  Some  believe  her  to  be  no  worse 
than  she  appears,  a  species  of  hoyden  grown  up.  But 
more  are  not  so  kind, — hence  the  uneasiness  of  wives 
who  can't  trust  their  husbands.  For  her  own  part,  she 
apparently  has  no  objection  to  being  thought  wicked, — 
she  does  any  number  of  things  she  would  never  do  if 
she  cared  to  save  her  name. 

In  Afton  this  woman  was  Mrs.  Troy. 

She  came  there  first  to  teach  school,  a  mere  girl 
then,  black-eyed,  saucy-nosed,  a  perfect  little  witch 
who  forthwith  upset  pretty  much  every  masculine  crea- 
ture in  the  bailiwick,  not  sparing  even  the  boys  in  her 
classes.  It  was  tradition  that  two  young  lads  (men 
with  families  now)  had  instantly  and  simultaneously 

259 


260  Mr.  Jakes 

fallen  in  love  with  her,  and  saw  no  way  out  but  to 
fight  to  determine  which  should  have  her.  And  fight 
they  did,  ferociously,  so  that  their  elders  found  out 
about  it,  and  there  was  an  investigation,  the  upshot  of 
which  was  a  warning  to  the  new  teacher,  from  the 
trustees.  And  what  did  she  do?  She  laughed  gaily, 
called  the  two  boys  up  before  the  whole  school,  kissed 
them  heartily,  and  told  them  she  had  decided,  on  the 
whole,  not  to  marry  either  of  them.  Very  likely  that 
was  the  best  she  could  do  for  them,  but  Afton  thought 
it  an  intolerably  bold,  wanton  thing,  and  the  little 
mistress  straightway  lost  her  place.  That  was  the 
utmost  outraged  respectability  could  do  against  her, 
however.  There  was  no  forcing  her  to  leave  the  vil- 
lage though  that  was  the  consummation  devoutly  to 
be  wished  for,  and  when  she  chose  to  remain,  out  of 
sheer  spite,  perhaps,  help  for  it  there  was  none.  Dur- 
ing some  memorable  months  she  ran  riot,  or  what 
looked  like  riot  to  respectable  Afton, — anyway  there 
wasn't  within  the  circuit  of  twenty  miles  a  youth  be- 
twixt the  ages  of  fifty  and  fifteen  but  confessed  himself 
her  slave,  and  she  took  every  advantage  of  their 
infatuation,  brazenly  accepting  their  gifts  and  scrupling 
not  to  live  on  their  bounty.  The  orgy  ended,  at  least 
in  its  most  flagrant  aspect,  with  her  marrying  William 
Troy.  Of  all  her  suitors  Troy  was  best  off  in  a 
worldly  way,  a  woodsman  of  the  rank  of  boss,  who 
never  worked  for  less  than  $5  a  day.  Besides,  he  was 
away  from  home  considerably  more  than  half  his 
time, — unfriendly  tongues  made  a  good  deal  of  that 
circumstance,  and  hinted  that  it  had  as  much  to  do  as 
any  with  determining  the  fair  lady's  choice. 

Troy  began  with  deeming  himself  the  most  favored 
of  mortals,  and  he  advertised  his  gratitude  in  a  prodi- 


Femina  Est  Varium  261 

gality  fit  to  give  great  scandal  among  a  people  whose 
religion  was  thrift.  He  wasted  his  substance  buying 
the  costliest  presents  for  his  wife,  till  she  blazed  with 
jewels  and  her  gowns  were  the  wonder  of  the  world. 
She  had  a  sumptuous  horse  and  buggy  of  her  own 
kept  at  the  livery-stable  and  brought  to  her  ready  as 
often  as  she  sent  word;  and  she  put  in  a  large  part  of 
her  day  driving  up  and  down,  flaunting  her  finery.  A 
very  favorite  prank  of  hers  was  to  overtake  some 
prominent  man,  as  he  was  walking  home  from  his 
business,  and  ask  him  to  ride  with  her.  The  man 
was  rare  who  knew  how  to  refuse,  or,  if  he  knew, 
made  use  of  his  knowledge ;  and  so  she  would  take  him 
up,  and  set  him  down  at  his  own  door  with  a  flourish 
and  a  flutter  calculated  to  disturb  the  domestic  peace, 
if  anything  could. 

Troy  professed  to  be  amused  by  the  woman's 
goings-on.  He  treated  her  as  he  might  a  child,  whose 
innocence  was  sufficient  apology  for  almost  any  way- 
wardness. Like  any  other  proud  man,  he  was  slow 
to  admit,  even  to  himself,  that  he  was  being  dishon- 
ored. But  there  came  a  time  when  Afton,  straining 
its  eyes  to  catch  the  first  intimation  of  the  expected, 
began  to  see  that  the  iron  was  entering  his  soul, — he 
let  it  appear  that  he  was  displeased  with  his  wife.  Es- 
pecially was  he  offended  by  her  freedom  with  her 
former  suitors,  his  rivals, — that  was  like  a  man,  too. 
These  gentry  had  retired  with  their  crests  fallen,  when 
she  made  bestowal  of  her  hand,  but  they  were  pres- 
ently given  to  understand  that  they  needn't  take  their 
banishment  too  seriously.  If  they  chose  to  call  on  her 
at  her  home,  they  weren't  turned  away,  though  she 
was  alone  there,  and  all  Afton  knew  she  was  alone. 
Troy  could  not  forever  close  his  ears  to  rumor,  nor 


262  Mr.  Jakes 

could  pride  blind  him  to  what  lay  right  in  his  path, — 
that  was  where  it  lay  because  the  woman  took  no  pains 
to  conceal  her  doings.  The  second  winter  their  house 
was  the  scene  of  such  revels  as  the  neighbors  wouldn't 
have  thought  possible  in  a  Christian  community,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  scandalous  hilarity,  the  injured  hus- 
band came  home, — in  February  though  his  season 
didn't  end  till  April, — and  he  tarried  there,  idle  and 
gloomy  and  uneasy,  till  June,  missing  three  drives  on 
the  river.  There  was  a  cloud  of  blackness  on  his  brow, 
figuring  the  cloud  of  displeasure  on  his  mind,  yet  noth- 
ing much  happened.  Folks  asked  themselves  what  had 
got  into  William  Troy,  always  looked  upon  as  a 
dangerous  man,  that  he  suffered  himself  to  be  so 
trampled  on, — it  amounted  to  no  less,  when  the  gay 
company  kept  on  coming  just  as  before,  and  revel 
ran  high  as  ever,  with  feasting  and  laughter  till  far 
into  the  night.  Nobody  imagined  Troy  did  much  of 
the  laughing,  though  he  was  present. 

After  two  years  a  baby  was  born,  and  it  proved  to 
be  deaf  and  dumb.  Afton  declared  it  a  just  judg- 
ment on  the  wanton,  yet  she  had  none  of  the  air  of 
being  chastened.  She  hired  a  cheap  girl  to  take  care  of 
the  child,  while  she  flaunted  out  in  her  silks  and  jewels, 
or  remained  at  home  to  entertain  her  crew  of  admirers. 
The  baby  made  her  no  better,  worse  if  anything, — that 
was  the  general  verdict. 

Mr.  Jakes  had  seen  Mrs.  Troy,  often,  but  they  had 
never  spoken  together, — their  ways  were  about  as 
diverse  as  ways  could  be.  But  one  autumn  day  there 
came  to  him  a  messenger  with  a  message,  a  slim  young 
girl,  who  urgently  summoned  him  to  go  at  once  to 
Mrs.  Troy,  for  that  she  greatly  wished  to  see  him. 

He  hesitated,  thinking  a  mistake  had  been  made. 


Femina  Est  Varium  263 

"  Her  baby  is  dying,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  little  sob 
which  might  be  due  to  excitement  more  than  grief. 

Mr.  Jakes  remembered  Beppo  and  the  extreme 
unction.  "  It's  the  priest  she  wants,"  he  said.  "  Over 
yonder,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  Catholic  rectory 
through  the  trees. 

"  No,  it's  you,"  urged  the  girl.  "  She  told  me  to 
fetch  Mr.  Jakes.  She  told  me  to  say  to  you  to  come, 
for  the  love  of  God." 

He  went. 

Mrs.  Troy  met  him  at  the  door,  greeted  him  quietly, 
and  took  him  by  the  hand.  She  was  haggard  with 
anxiety  and  watching,  but  quite  calm.  She  did  not 
weep,  nor  did  she  seem  to  have  been  weeping,  and  her 
voice  was  firm  and  clear.  Still  holding  him  by  the 
hand,  she  led  him  to  an  inner  room, — the  chamber  of 
death,  for  death  had  already  come.  The  child  had 
breathed  his  last  and  lay  still  and  cold. 

Mr.  Jakes  met  the  mother's  tearless  eyes  and  his 
own  gushed  full.  "  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  he  faltered, 
brokenly,  and  indeed  he  was. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  hear  my  con- 
fession? " 

Once  more  he  thought  there  was  a  mistake.  "  I  am 
not  a  priest,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 

"  You  are  priest  enough  for  me,"  she  answered,  and 
smiled  up  at  him,  though  her  baby  lay  dead  before 
them.  It  was  a  peculiar  smile,  such  as  he  had  never 
beheld, — not  out  of  place. 

"  You  wonder  at  my  confidence  in  you,"  the  woman 
went  on,  "  and  I  wonder  at  it,  too.  When  I  tell  you 
of  the  influence  you  have  had  over  me  you  will  wonder 
more,  as  I  wonder  myself, — I  can't  explain,  it's  a 
mystery  to  me.  But  there  it  is.  Almost  from  my  first 


264  Mr.  Jakes 

hearing  of  you  I  felt  a  strange  interest  in  everything 
you  did,  and  stranger  still,  it  was  an  uncomfortable  in- 
terest. Because  it  was  uncomfortable  I  tried  to  be  rid 
of  it,  to  laugh  it  away, — I  tried  to  despise  you, — I 
tried  everything.  But  after  all  the  interest  remained, 
and  grew  in  spite  of  me,  and  at  last  it  accused  me.  Oh, 
I  cannot  make  you  understand  what  this  feeling  has 
been  to  me,  what  it  has  done  for  me !  You  will  think 
me  flighty,  you  will  think  my  trouble  has  affected  my 
mind,  but  all  the  same  I  must  say  it, — you  seem  to  me 
to  have  saved  me  from  myself!  I  can't  put  it  so  truly 
any  other  way, — you  have  saved  me !  " 

And  with  that  she  bent  down  her  head  and  kissed  his 
hand. 

Mr.  Jakes  was  made  dumb  and  helpless ;  even  though 
there  had  been  in  him  the  prudence  of  the  ordinary 
man,  he  could  not  resist,  so  overcome  was  he.  The 
woman  did  not  let  go  his  hand  until  she  had  brought 
him  to  a  seat,  and  then  only  while  she  drew  up  a  low 
stool  for  herself  at  his  feet, — in  a  moment  her  ringers 
had  closed  tightly  over  his  once  more.  Was  there  a 
quiver  of  reluctance  on  his  part  ?  Anyway  there  came, 
for  an  instant,  a  look  of  alarm  in  her  face  upturned  to 
his,  and  she  pleaded  :  "  May  I  ?  " 

She  might, — it  was  not  for  him  to  repel  her  ad- 
vances. 

"  They  call  me  a  bad  woman,  but  you  don't  fear  me, 
do  you?"  she  said,  coaxingly. 

Fear  her?  No,  not  that.  If  he  had  been  reluctant, 
he  knew  no  reason  why,  in  the  face  of  her  eager  solici- 
tude. 

"  I  am  a  bad  woman,"  she  exclaimed,  "  but  not  in 
the  way  people  say.  I  was  a  thoughtless  girl,  and  im- 
pulsive, and  selfish,  and  when  I  found  I  had  the  power 


Femina  Est  Varium  265 

to  move  the  passions  of  men,  it  delighted  me  to  use 
my  power, — I  had  no  sense  of  responsibility.  Yet  I 
was  only  what  the  Lord  made  me,  and  if  I  was  sinful, 
my  sin  doesn't  lie  on  my  conscience.  Nor  have  I 
sinned  against  my  husband,  more  than  that  I  haven't 
been  kind  to  him,  or  willing  to  consider  his  feelings.  I 
daresay  I  never  loved  him  as  I  should, — very  likely  I 
was  incapable  of  loving  as  a  wife  should.  But  if  I  did 
wrong  in  marrying  him,  I  wasn't  conscious  of  wrong- 
doing, so  that  doesn't  lie  on  my  conscience,  either. 

"  The  sin  that  weighs  on  me  was  against  the  life 
which  has  just  gone  out.  I  was  resolved  not  to  have 
any  children.  I  abhorred  motherhood,  and  was  ready 
to  do  anything  to  avoid  it, — to  that  end  I  resorted  to 
all  the  abominable  expedients.  And  when,  in  spite  of 
all  my  wretched  devices,  I  found  I  was  about  to  be- 
come a  mother,  I  tried  to  commit  murder.  I  tried  to 
destroy  the  life  which  had  been  given  me  to  bring  forth 
and  nourish.  And  when  I  failed  in  that,  and  was  a 
mother  in  spite  of  myself,  I  hated  my  baby.  I  cursed 
him.  I  wished  nothing  so  much  as  that  he  might  be 
stricken  dead." 

Just  here  her  fingers  clutched  hard, — she  was  strug- 
gling to  control  herself,  the  effort  plainly  visible  in  her 
haggard  face.  There  was  a  considerable  pause  until 
she  continued : 

"  Nature  gave  me  plenty  of  food  for  the  child,  but 
I  threw  it  away,  and  took  a  bitter  satisfaction  in  doing 
so.  I  couldn't  bear  to  touch  my  baby,  I  hated  him  so. 
I  saw  he  was  weakly,  and  was  glad,  for  the  greater 
hope  it  gave  me  that  he  would  die.  I  dared  not  kill 
him,  now  that  he  was  born,  but  I  was  willing.  In  my 
heart  I  murdered  him  a  thousand  times. 

"  When  it  turned  out  that  he  was  deaf  and  dumb, 


266  Mr.  Jakes 

I  hated  him  all  the  more.  I  thought  of  the  burden  of 
care  which  this  meant,  if  he  lived,  and  I  was  furious.  I 
could  have  struck  him  as  he  lay  in  his  cradle,  I  was 
so  angry.  Once  I  saw  my  husband  take  the  baby  up 
and  cry  over  him,  and  I  was  beside  myself.  I  wanted 
all  the  pity  for  my  own,  and  I  said  I  wished  the  boy 
might  die,  the  sooner  the  better.  My  husband  an- 
swered that  a  child  born  to  such  a  mother  were  better 
dead.  That  day  I  was  nearer  to  committing  a  wife's 
great  sin  than  ever  in  my  life, — I  only  lacked  the 
opportunity,  my  will  was  sufficient. 

"  You  find  it  hard  to  believe  ?  You  don't  know  a 
woman.  You  don't  know  what  a  fiend  she  is  when 
once  she  sets  her  will  against  her  natural  instincts. 

"  That  was  when  I  first  began  to  hear  of  you.  What 
was  it  I  heard?  I  can't  say, — many  things,  though 
nothing  remarkable.  The  men  who  came  to  see  me 
made  jokes  about  you, — called  you  a  little  tin  Jesus. 
I  tried  to  think  that  very  funny,  but  somehow  I 
couldn't — that  feeling  was  coming  on  me.  The 
more  I  laughed  at  your  ways,  the  more  I  had  to  com- 
pare them  with  my  own  ways,  and  it  grew  and  grew 
on  me  that  I  was  wrong.  The  crisis  came  one  night, 
— I  woke  up  to  find  my  face  wet  with  tears,  and  I  was 
yearning  for  my  baby.  I  ran  to  his  cradle  and  took 
him  up  and  pressed  him  to  my  breast  so  hard  that  he 
cried.  It  was  a  great  misery  and  still  a  great  joy,  for 
it  seemed  as  if  the  more  I  suffered  the  more  I  atoned 
for  the  wrong  I  had  done, — I  can't  describe  the  exper- 
ience,— I  never  heard  of  anything  like  it.  I  went  down 
on  my  knees  and  prayed  that  the  boy  might  live  that  I 
might  spend  all  my  life  in  devotion  to  him,  that  I 
might  be  allowed  to  make  up  to  him  something  of 
what  I  had  deprived  him  of.  I  didn't  doubt  that  his 


Femina  Est  Varium  267 

being  deaf  and  dumb  was  my  fault;  and  I  wanted  him 
to  live  so  that  I  might  give  my  voice  and  my  ears 
wholly  to  him. 

"  When  he  fell  sick  I  knew  he  was  going  to  die,  and 
still  I  prayed.  I  hoped  against  hope,  for  it  was  a  ter- 
rible sorrow  to  face.  Who  ever  had  such  a  sorrow? 
Think  of  it!  Yet  I  can  thank  God  now, — there's 
something  I  can  be  thankful  for, — I  shall  never  cease 
to  bless  God  for  not  taking  my  baby  while  yet  I  was  in 
that  darkness,  when  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have 
him  die.  Is  it  not  something  that  my  boy  has  lived 
until  his  death  is  a  sorrow  and  not  a  joy? 

"  I  owe  it  to  you, — I  cannot  tell  you  how,  but  I  am 
sure.  I  don't  know  what  sent  you  here  to  this  cor- 
ner of  the  world, — I  don't  know  what  sent  me  here, — 
God  is  good,  even  to  the  one  who  denies  Him.  He  has 
been  good  to  me." 

Again  she  bent  down  her  head  and  kissed  his  hand, 
and  again  he  did  not  resist, — nay  more,  he  gave  her 
back  her  kiss.  Mr.  Jakes  forgot  that  she  was  a 
woman  and  he  a  man,  forgot  all  that  such  caresses 
commonly  signify, — to  him  the  figure  bowed  at  his 
feet  was  a  soul  in  agony,  a  soul  in  trial.  He  tenderly 
brushed  the  dark  disordered  curls  away  from  her  brow, 
and  kissed  her  as  she  had  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   MAN  OF  WRATH 

THERE  was  a  perfect  whirlwind  of  talk  when  Mrs. 
Troy  became  a  regular  attendant  at  the  Unitarian 
Church.  Her  very  first  appearance  there  was  enough 
to  start  a  breeze.  Two  or  three  more  appearances  in- 
creased this  to  a  gale,  so  to  say,  and  when  a  dozen 
appearances,  on  as  many  consecutive  Sundays,  put  her 
in  the  light  of  a  regular  attendant,  the  whirlwind  rose, 
and  raged  up  and  down,  till  Afton  was  about  over- 
turned. 

Moreover,  what  were  people  to  think  of  the  change 
in  the  woman,  in  respect  of  her  weekday  goings-out 
and  comings-in  ? 

She  flaunted  herself  no  more.  The  horse  and  buggy 
were  sold,  and  leading  men  were  suffered  to  go  their 
peaceful  ways,  no  more  to  be  snatched  up  and  carried 
off  in  a  flutter  of  bright  ribbons  and  vivacity.  Mrs. 
Troy  went  very  little  abroad,  these  days,  and  she 
always  walked,  demurely,  with  her  eyes  cast  down. 
The  jewels  vanished  from  the  public  sight, — they 
were  sold,  too.  And  gowns?  Not  only  were  her 
gowns  severely  plain,  henceforth,  and  of  material  far 
from  costly,  but  there  was  the  consolation,  as  bewild- 
ering as  unlooked-for,  of  observing  that  these  gar- 

268 


The   Man  of  Wrath  269 

ments  were  not  particularly  becoming,  and  that  they 
didn't  even  fit.  The  skirts  sagged,  and  the  waists 
bunched  up,  and  it  was  certain  that  Mrs.  Troy  was 
making  her  own  clothes, — the  identical  Mrs.  Troy  who 
had  been  known  to  go  to  a  man's  tailor  in  the  city 
and  pay  him  as  much  as  $50  for  making  up  a  single 
suit. 

People  perceived  very  quickly  what  they  were  to 
think, — there  was  only  one  thing  to  think,  in  fact. 
Wasn't  it  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face  that  this 
designing  hussy  had  set  her  cap  for  Mr.  Jakes  ?  What 
could  be  better  calculated  to  gain  her  favor  in  his  eyes 
than  just  such  proceedings  as  these? 

To  be  sure  there  was  the  logical  difficulty  as  to  what 
any  woman  should  find  in  him  to  attract  her.  Mr. 
Jakes  was  pulled  to  bits,  and  the  bits  poked  about 
endlessly,  yet  there  was  disclosed  not  the  first  element 
of  attractiveness.  Handsome  ?  As  far  from  it  as  pos- 
sible,— this  stooped  and  shuffling  fellow,  with  his  lean 
face  and  muddy  complexion.  If  his  eyes  were  remark- 
able, it  was  not  in  a  way  to  make  a  person  fond  of  him. 
They  were  uncanny  eyes,  in  fact.  Just  about  that  time 
there  appeared  in  somebody's  newspaper  the  portrait 
of  a  much  mentioned  actor  in  the  character  of 
Svengali,  and  it  was  quite  the  universal  exclamation 
that  the  eyes  in  that  were  Mr.  Jakes's  eyes  all  over 
again  when  Mr.  Jakes  was  roused  up;  and  when  he 
wasn't  roused  up,  his  eyes  were  dull.  Plenty  of 
women  were  ready  to  declare  that  nothing  could  in- 
duce them  to  live  with  a  man  who  had  such  eyes, — 
they'd  be  deathly  afraid  of  him. 

However,  fortunately  for  the  progress  and  pros- 
perity of  the  scandal,  it  wasn't  necessary  to  discover 
what  Mrs.  Troy  found  in  Mr.  Jakes,  in  order  to  be- 


270  Mr.   Jakes 

lieve  that  she  was  in  hot  pursuit  of  him, — the  diffi- 
culty, though  insoluble,  was  not  fatal.  Love  is  an  im- 
mense mystery  and  goes  where  it  is  sent.  Mrs.  Troy 
was  in  love  with  the  parson,  account  for  it  as  you 
would  or  not  at  all.  This  woman,  till  now  the  flame 
for  moths  to  singe  their  wings  in,  untouched  of  the 
passion  she  so  strongly  moved  in  her  victims,  who  had 
trifled  with  all  men,  showing  favor  to  none  unless  by 
courtesy  her  marrying  Troy  could  be  called  a  favor, 
— here  she  was  openly  advertising  a  preference  for 
Jakes,  and  packing  the  others  off  without  ceremony; 
for  now  she  received  no  company  whatever.  Except- 
ing Jakes?  No,  not  even  excepting  Jakes.  The 
chosen  lover  was  never  seen  at  her  house,  and  her 
house  was  watched  so  closely  that  his  calling  unseen 
was  practically  out  of  the  question.  That  might  be 
deemed  a  difficulty,  too,  but  Afton  disposed  of  it  by 
saying  it  was  a  part  of  the  game. 

On  no  better  food  than  Mrs.  Troy's  altered  conduct 
scandal  fed  and  flourished,  but  there  was  much 
stronger  meat  forthcoming, — by  the  hand  of  the  girl 
who  had  been  Mrs.  Troy's  nurse,  the  messenger  who 
had  summoned  Mr.  Jakes  to  that  extraordinary  inter- 
view. 

This  young  person  went  by  the  name  of  Tildy. 
Tildy  lost  her  place  when  the  baby  died,  for  a  resolu- 
tion to  do  all  her  own  work  was  a  part  of  Mrs.  Troy's 
new  character.  It  had  been  a  good  place,  easy  work 
and  generous  wages  promptly  paid,  and  the  girl  wasn't 
pleased  to  give  it  up.  Indeed,  she  thought  herself  in 
some  manner  aggrieved  and  conceived  a  grudge 
against  her  former  mistress,  the  more  as  she  had  no- 
where to  go  but  back  on  the  farm,  to  dig  potatoes,  and 
husk  corn. 


The  Man  of  Wrath  271 

She  was  not  to  be  forgotten  of  the  world  of  Afton, 
however. 

A  group  of  good  women,  casually  met  one  day  and 
considering  Mrs.  Troy  and  Mr.  Jakes  if  haply  any- 
thing new  might  be  brought  to  light,  were  penetrated 
with  a  happy  thought, — they  remembered  Tildy,  how 
that  she  had  been  Mrs.  Troy's  girl  and  by  that  in 
a  position  to  know  something,  possibly  a  great  deal. 
And  not  less  happy  than  the  thought  was  the  expedient 
it  led  to.  None  of  these  women  really  needed,  or 
could  rightly  afford,  hired  help,  but  they  were  willing 
to  make  a  sacrifice  for  the  public  good,  and  the  upshot 
was  that  they  agreed  among  themselves  to  give  Tildy 
employment,  turn  and  turn  about,  until  she  should  have 
been  pumped  dry. 

Tildy's  sense  of  grievance  made  her  ready,  and  no 
great  art  was  necessary  to  draw  her  out, — disclosures 
beyond  anybody's  fondest  dreams  followed  shortly  on 
her  return  from  the  country.  Tildy  (think  of  it!) 
had  peeked  through  the  crack  of  a  door  and  seen  Mrs. 
Troy  and  Mr.  Jakes  sitting  as  close  together  as  ever 
they  could  get,  and  holding  hands,  and  kissing, — 
actually  kissing!  Mrs.  Troy  had  kissed  Mr.  Jakes's 
hand  and  Mr.  Jakes  had  kissed  Mrs.  Troy's  forehead. 
What  else  took  place  had  to  be  guessed,  for  the  reason 
that  Tildy  had  become  terribly  frightened,  at  that,  and 
ran  away;  but  guessing  wasn't  hard. 

There  had  never  been  a  divorce  case  in  Afton,  or 
anywhere  nearer  then  Tellerville,  but  in  this  situation 
how  could  the  supreme  felicity  be  long  withheld?  If 
William  Troy  had  left  in  him  a  spark  of  manhood, 
there  would  be  a  divorce  case  of  the  tastiest  sort,  right 
away,  a  case  as  highly  spiced  as  the  most  fastidious 
could  ask.  Papers  were  likely  to  be  forthcoming  any 


272  Mr.  Jakes 

day, — just  as  soon  as  Troy  should  get  wind  of  the 
business,  there  must  inevitably  be  papers, — and  papers 
meant  a  delirious  publicity. 

Troy  wasn't  let  to  be  long  getting  wind.  The 
common  interest  would  see  that  the  wind  blew  straight- 
way to  him,  and  that  it  was  abundantly  redolent  with 
the  scandal.  The  story  came  to  him  from  a  dozen 
different  sources  all  at  once,  but  he  was  bossing  a  big 
camp  that  winter,  it  wasn't  at  all  convenient  for  him 
to  leave, — he  shut  his  teeth  together  and  paid  no 
attention.  Pretty  soon,  however,  he  got  a  letter,  and 
that  set  him  on  fire.  Nobody  had  ever  seen  him  in 
such  a  flame ;  he  dropped  everything  regardless  of  con- 
sequences, and  set  off  for  home  with  a  look  in  his  face 
which  boded  mischief.  He  arrived,  and  the  look  was 
still  there.  Afton  saw  it,  and  fell  into  a  quiver  of  ex- 
pectancy. There  was  no  telling,  any  more, — a  divorce 
case  didn't  begin  to  comprehend  the  possibilities. 

A  brew  of  trouble,  certainly,  even  as  it  stood 
revealed,  saying  nothing  of  sundry  elements  which  the 
public  wot  not  of.  For  such  there  were,  and  especially 
there  was  that  other  cap  which  had  been  set  for  Mr. 
Jakes, — the  cap  of  Nannie  Jones. 

Nannie  was  a  spinster,  thirty  odd,  of  a  turn  for 
matrimony  and  no  longer  fastidious.  How  could  she 
well  be  so  ?  A  village  of  a  few  hundred  souls,  afford- 
ing its  girls  just  a  sufficient  taste  of  urbanity  to  set 
them  above  marrying  farmers,  and  by  its  barrenness 
of  opportunity  sending  its  eligible  boys  away  to  seek 
their  fortune  elsewhere, — well,  to  make  a  long  and 
painful  story  short,  no  bachelor  was  to  be  despised. 
Nannie  thought  so,  in  effect,  the  first  time  she  heard 
that  Mr.  Jakes  was  a  bachelor.  The  first  time  she 
saw  him  she  decided  that  he  would  do  very  nicely. 


The  Man  of  Wrath  273 

That  was  the  day  of  the  inaugural,  and  he  was  greeted 
by  no  warmer  praise  than  Mistress  Nannie's,  when  she 
came  up  with  her  father  and  mother  and  was 
introduced  by  the  squire. 

She  was  vexed  with  but  little,  if  any,  of  the  tender 
sentiment,  at  first, — only  with  the  wish  to  have  a  hus- 
band, most  any  kind  of  a  husband.  But  as  time  wore 
on,  Nannie  fell  in  love  with  Mr.  Jakes,  really  and  truly 
in  love,  till  at  length  she  adored  him,  and  would 
blush  softly  as  often  as  she  thought  of  him,  though 
that  should  keep  her  blushing  most  always,  and  won 
her  many  a  compliment  on  the  healthy  color  she  was 
getting.  In  her  gentle,  thin-blooded  way,  she  was 
presently  suffering  all  the  miseries  of  lovesickness, 
sighing  and  pining  and  building  castles  in  the  air, 
and  seeing  Mr.  Jakes  in  everything.  Nannie  was  a 
thoroughly  good  girl,  scrupulously  correct  in  her  be- 
havior. She  helped  her  mother  and  was  patient  with 
her  father.  It  had  once  been  usual  for  people  to  say 
that  she  would  certainly  make  some  man  a  good  wife, 
some  day,  and  though  that  manner  of  acknowledgment 
had  fallen  into  disuse,  her  worth  was  never  aspersed 
by  a  lisp. 

Was  Nannie  wholly  to  blame  for  the  desperate 
resolution  which  made  her  stoop,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  to  deceit?  Or  had  the  common  human  nature 
which  was  hers  without  her  asking  something  to 
answer  for?  Whether  or  no,  she  stooped  to  deceit. 
She  heard  the  stories.  She  fancied  Mrs.  Troy  was  her 
rival.  She  burned  with  jealousy,  and  in  her  passion 
was  transformed. 

And  even  apart  from  the  stories,  she  found  reason  to 
be  alarmed.  Mr.  Jakes's  manner  toward  her  argued, 
to  her  distracted  mind,  that  his  heart  was  already 


274  Mr.  Jakes 

engaged.  Though  she  wooed  him  with  every  art  open 
to  a  woman  who  hasn't  thrown  modesty  completely 
to  the  winds,  he  was  unresponsive.  She  visited  him 
at  his  house,  first  with  her  mother,  and  then,  in  an 
access  of  boldness  which  made  her  tremble,  alone.  She 
professed  to  be  anxious  about  her  soul,  to  wish  to  talk 
about  its  perilous  state;  and  that  was  her  first  deceit, 
for  she  had  in  truth  come  to  the  pass  where  she  would 
be  a  thousand  times  glad  to  give  her  soul  for  her  love, 
and  knew  no  perdition  save  disappointment  in  that 
love.  She  was  gushing  and  confidential,  but  he  was 
uneasy  and  absent.  She  laid  bare  her  heart,  for  any 
man  to  see  who  had  half  an  eye,  but  he  saw  nothing. 
She  proposed  to  him  the  predicament  of  a  good,  pure 
girl,  who  had  conceived  a  feeling  for  a  man  before  he, 
on  his  part,  had  shown  any  decided  preference  for  her. 
Was  that  sinful  in  her?  Would  it  be  a  sin  if  she  were 
to  declare  her  feeling  to  the  man  ?  Mr  Jakes  mumbled 
that  he  would  rather  not  express  an  opinion,  his  ex- 
perience was  too  small  to  warrant  him,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing;  and  Nannie  left  him  bowed  down  with 
chagrin.  But  she  was  more  resolved  than  ever.  She 
soon  plucked  up  courage  and  cast  about  her  for  new 
ways  of  approach,  all  in  the  foolish,  blind,  simple 
fashion  of  an  innocent  old  maid. 

She  brushed  up  her  botany.  Years  ago.  in  her 
young  girlhood,  she  had  dipped  into  botany  with  an 
uncommonly  talented  teacher  in  the  village  school,  and 
progressed  so  far  as  to  have  identified  the  ordinary 
Crowsfoot  of  the  spring  woods  with  the  Ranunculus 
Abortivus  of  the  books, — no  very  brilliant  achievement, 
but  quite  sufficient  to  exhaust  her  slender  fund  of 
mental  force.  Now,  however,  her  heart  gave  strength 
to  her  brain, — she  had  a  new  reason  to  be  studious. 


The  Man  of  Wrath  275 

She  took  it  for  granted  that  Mr.  Jakes  liked  botany, 
or  could  be  got  to  like  it,  and  on  that  ground  she  built 
her  fond  belief  that  botany  would  be  the  means  of 
bringing  them  together.  She  buried  herself  in  the 
pages  of  Gray's  Manual, — it  was  hard  work,  but 
unspeakably  delicious,  cheered  as  it  was  with  rosy 
visions  of  Mr.  Jakes  and  herself  wandering  over  grassy 
fields  and  bosky  dells,  forgetful  of  all  else  but  them- 
selves, making  pretext  of  their  quest  while  they  knit 
their  lives  forever  together.  She  made  a  collection, — 
mounted  a  number  of  pressed  plants  on  sheets  of  paper, 
as  her  teacher  had  shown  her  how  to  do,  and  wrote 
a  neat  label  for  each,  with  the  Latin  name.  She  was 
by  no  means  sure  that  she  always  picked  out  the  right 
name,  but  why  should  that  matter? 

Then  she  had  the  minister  to  tea. 

He  came  stumbling  up,  awkward  and  silent,  making 
the  occasion  funereal  in  spite  of  all  the  anxious  little 
hostess  could  do.  After  tea  Nannie  brought  out  her 
specimens,  with  a  fluttering  heart,  and  showed  them 
to  him.  He  stared  at  them  dully  and  handed  them 
back  without  a  word.  She  asked  him  if  he  was 
interested  in  botany,  and  he  replied  that  he  wasn't. 

After  that  the  gentle  Nannie  fell  rapidly  into  the 
character  of  the  woman  scorned,  whose  like  is  not 
among  all  the  furies.  She  struggled  feebly,  though 
it  was  her  utmost,  to  give  up  her  love  for  Mr.  Jakes, 
and  when  she  could  not,  she  hated  Mrs.  Troy  with  a 
bitterness  incredible.  There  was  no  happiness  for 
Nannie  but  to  possess  Mr.  Jakes, — how  else  should 
she  regard  the  creature  who  stood  in  her  way  unless 
with  hatred?  The  sentiment  itself  was  natural 
enough, — only  the  intensity  of  it  was  incredible. 
How  should  such  a  black  passion  find  harbor  in  a 


276  Mr.  Jakes 

bosom  so  meek  and  innocent?  But  harbor  it  found, 
and  it  was  black  enough  to  drive  Nannie  to  her  worst 
deceit, — a  very  grave  deceit  indeed,  in  view  of  what 
it  was  likely  to  lead  to.  She  wrote  to  Troy,  up  in  the 
the  woods,  a  lying  letter.  She  had  her  own  purpose 
to  serve,  and  she  wrote  for  that,  regardless  of  truth. 
Apart  from  her  purpose  she  thought  very  little  of  the 
probable  consequences.  All  she  cared  for  was  to  work 
on  the  man  in  such  a  way  that  he  would  come  home  and 
take  care  of  his  wife.  Nannie  heard  the  talk  about 
a  divorce  but  it  made  no  definite  impression  on  her. 
She  never  stopped  to  reflect  that  her  interference  was 
likely  to  bring  about  a  legal  separation  which  would 
leave  Mrs.  Troy  free  to  marry  Mr.  Jakes ;  and  equally 
blind  was  she  to  the  danger  of  starting  a  quarrel 
which  might  end  in  serious  harm  to  her  beloved,  not 
impossibly  his  death  at  the  hands  of  the  injured  hus- 
band whose  anger  she  was  striving  to  stir  up.  All 
she  could  think  of  was  that  if  Troy  were  roused,  to  do 
his  duty,  her  path  would  be  made  clear. 

It  was  Nannie's  letter  which  brought  Troy  down 
from  the  woods  in  a  towering  rage.  It  did  precisely 
what  she  wished  it  to  do, — it  made  him  feel  his 
dishonor.  It  was  a  wonderful  letter,  in  its  way, — it 
achieved  great  things  in  tearing  wide  the  wretched 
man's  wound  and  setting  him  wild  with  the  pain 
thereof. 

So  much  for  the  invisible  undercurrent  which  Afton 
wot  not  of. 

Troy  came  over  from  Tellerville  with  Tronson  the 
carrier,  and  Tronson  always  declared  that  he  never 
spoke  a  word  the  whole  way,  only  glowered  and 
chewed  up  unlighted  cigars.  Tronson  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if  Bill  chewed  up  as  many  as  a  dozen  cigars, 


The  Man  of  Wrath  277 

and  all  of  them  ten-centers,  if  not  better.  There 
was  the  usual  crowd  waiting  for  the  mail,  but  Troy 
greeted  nobody,  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left, 
gave  no  intimation  of  his  intentions,  further  than  that 
he  went  straight  to  his  home.  Daniel  the  pensioner, 
a  wag  of  the  species  who  deem  a  joke  no  joke  unless 
it  lacerates  somebody's  feelings,  had  a  mind  to  rally 
Troy  a  bit,  and  his  age  and  high  standing  permitted 
him  to  make  the  attempt.  He  remarked,  in  an  ironical 
vein,  on  the  early  break-up  of  the  logging  season,  and 
winked  significantly  at  the  bystanders ;  but  Troy  turned 
away  with  such  a  harried,  pained  expression  mingling 
with  the  sternness  in  his  face  that  nobody  laughed  and 
Daniel  himself  was  so  touched  as  to  admit  he  was 
sorry,  blame  him  if  he  wasn't.  He  was  sorry  for  Bill 
Troy,  a  likely  man, — as  likely  a  man  as  could  be  scared 
out  of  the  bush.  It  was  too  bad,  blame  Daniel  if  it 
wasn't. 

"  He's  a  mighty  sight  too  good  a  man  to  be  troublin' 
himself  over  the  doin's  of  any  sech  a  woman,"  the 
pensioner  insisted,  with  a  vehement  jerk  of  his  head. 
"  She  haint  wuth  so  much  as  the  dirt  a  good  man  will 
tread  under  his  feet,  a-steppin'  once,"  he  went  on, 
with  rising  feeling.  But  that  wasn't  the  proper  part 
of  so  true  a  philosopher, — in  a  moment  he  fell  back  into 
his  habitual  vein  of  calm  reflection :  "  Beats  all,  what 
a  power  of  hell  one  bad  woman  kin  raise  with  two 
good  men.  Bill  Troy's  a  good  man  an'  for  aught  I 
know  Mr.  Jakes  is  a  good  man,  an'  jest  look  at  'em! 
We  may  see  'em  a-killin'  one  another,  all  over  a 
wuthless,  good-for-nothin'  hussy." 

This  was  to  make  no  overstatement  of  the 
possibilities,  as  Afton  at  large  saw  them,  and  you  will 
make  no  doubt  that  Troy  was  watched.  Argus  him- 


278  Mr.  Jakes 

self  had  fewer  eyes  and  less  greedy  than  followed  the 
stalwart  woodsman  till  he  disappeared  beyond  the 
portals  of  his  own  house.  The  first  impression,  taking 
account  of  the  provocation  and  of  Troy's  manner  in 
the  face  of  it,  was  that  whatever  was  done  would  be 
done  quickly.  Seizing  upon  the  probabilities  as  they 
presented  themselves,  Afton  had  no  difficulty  in  form- 
ing a  definite  expectation,  the  sum  of  which  was  that 
Troy  would  stay  in  the  house  only  long  enough  to 
have  a  terrible  scene  with  his  wife  (the  suggestion 
wasn't  lacking  that  he  would  most  likely  kill  her,  but 
opinion  generally  shrank  from  looking  for  anything 
like  that),  after  which  he  would  come  out  and  go  after 
Mr.  Jakes.  That  was  where  the  shudderful  part 
promised  to  come  in.  Troy  was  understood  to  have 
furnished  himself  with  a  shooting-iron, — there  was  no 
authority  for  saying  so,  but  that  would  never  keep 
it  from  being  understood,  under  the  circumstances. 

Troy  arrived  about  ten  o'clock.  The  sun  mounted 
to  its  height  and  began  its  descent,  and  beheld  nothing 
more  sanguinary  than  Afton  waiting  and  watching 
still,  for  Troy  had  not  come  out.  It  was  dinner-time. 
What  about  dinner,  anyway,  in  such  a  posture  of 
affairs?  The  difficulty  was  variously  met.  Some 
went  absolutely  dinnerless  rather  than  run  the  risk 
of  not  being  on  hand  to  see  what  there  should  be  to 
see.  Some, — the  more  opulent  or  ruthless  of  expense, 
— bought  crackers  and  cheese  at  the  grocery.  Some, 
and  they  were  perhaps  the  majority,  plunged  home, 
snatched  a  morsel,  and  plunged  back,  eagerly  asking  if 
anything  had  happened,  in  their  absence. 

Nothing  had  happened.  As  the  event  proved,  every- 
body might  have  gone  home  to  dinner,  and  eaten 


The  Man  of  Wrath  279 

leisurely,  and  taken  his  time  about  getting  back,  yet 
have  missed  nothing. 

It  was  precisely  half  past  one  in  the  afternoon,  when 
word,  winging  through  a  multitude  grown  negligent 
with  weariness  and  hope  deferred,  brought  on  a  rapid 
concentration,  a  forward  movement  all  along  the  line, 
with  a  quickening  of  pulses  and  a  holding  of  breaths, 
— Troy  had  come  out  at  last.  But  on  the  very  heels 
of  the  first  rumor  followed  another,  very  dampening, 
— Troy  had  indeed  come  out,  but  only  to  get  an  arm- 
ful of  wood  and  go  back.  He  was  in  his  shirtsleeves 
and  looked  rather  domestic  than  otherwise. 

He  showed  himself  no  more  at  all,  that  day.  At 
night  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Troy 
was  seen  to  pass  from  window  to  window,  drawing  the 
curtains, — so  far  as  Afton  could  make  out,  by  such  a 
mere  glimpse,  she  was  quite  herself. 

Afton  went  to  bed  with  a  distinct  sense  of  having 
been  cheated. 

Next  day  the  watch  was  resumed,  with  a  certain 
languor.  It  had  to  be  confessed  that  the  likelihood 
of  any  very  sensational  outcome  was  about  faded  away, 
while  the  likelihood  of  the  man  and  his  wife  coming 
to  some  sort  of  an  understanding,  peaceable  if  not 
friendly,  was  fast  approximating  a  certainty.  About 
the  most  that  could  be  expected,  the  first  day  having 
gone  by  without  visible  developments,  was  a  divorce- 
case,  and  while  that  had  once  been  looked  forward  to  as 
a  racy  outcome,  it  was  pretty  tame  in  comparison  with 
the  gun-play  which  had  since  seemed  to  impend. 

But  now  the  watch  did  not  go  unrewarded.  Some- 
where not  far  from  nine  o'clock  (people  had  given  up 
making  close  note  of  the  time  in  the  view  that  nothing 
much  was  going  to  happen  anyway)  the  door  was 


280  Mr.  Jakes 

opened,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Troy  came  out  together, 
and  walked  away  together,  toward  the  post-office. 
They  didn't  speak  to  each  other,  but  on  the  other  hand 
there  was  no  marked  coldness  between  them, — their  air 
was  about  that  of  any  couple  who  had  been  married 
some  time.  Troy  nodded  to  now  and  then  an 
acquaintance  as  he  passed,  and  if  it  was  not  quite  as  if 
there  were  nothing  in  the  wind,  he  wasn't  so  very  ill  at 
ease, — at  all  events  the  bodeful  look  of  yesterday  was 
gone.  Mrs.  Troy,  as  her  wont  had  become,  these  days, 
kept  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Where  were  they  going?  To  the  post-office, 
perhaps,  merely  to  show  themselves  in  company.  No, 
— when  they  reached  the  stairway  leading  to  Squire 
Thornhill's  office,  they  turned  in  there,  and  the  next 
moment  were  lost  to  sight  once  more,  with  Afton 
staring  blankly  after  them. 

What,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods  at  once,  did  it 
mean? 

The  common  sense  of  having  been  cheated  was 
much  intensified.  There  began  to  rise  dark  doubts  as 
to  there  being  even  a  divorce-case.  When  it  was 
proposed  that  the  only  purpose  the  Troys  could  have 
in  repairing  to  a  lawyer's  office,  that  way,  was  to 
draw  up  articles  for  an  amicable  separation,  hardly 
a  voice  was  heard  in  dissent.  And  you  know  how 
chagrin  paves  the  way  for  resentment.  Here  was  a 
kind  of  affront,  and  Afton,  getting  its  breath,  proceeded 
to  avenge  itself  as  it  might.  It  loaded  Mrs.  Troy 
with  reproaches.  It  loaded  Mr.  Jakes  with  reproaches. 
But  most  especially,  since  it  had  long  since  said  its 
worst  about  these  two,  it  loaded  Bill  Troy  with  re- 
proaches. Bill  Troy  was  no  man.  Bill  Troy  had 
shown  himself  a  coward.  Bill  Troy  ought  to  be 


The  Man  of  Wrath  281 

ashamed  to  let  his  face  be  seen,  after  swallowing  his 
disgrace  so  meekly. 

Meanwhile,  up  in  the  squire's  office,  the  drama  was 
culminating, — if  anything  so  mild  could  be  considered, 
in  view  of  what  had  gone  before,  a  culmination.  And 
first  of  all,  Mrs.  Troy  was  making  an  affidavit, — in 
perfect  composure,  without  a  quaver  or  any  hesitation 
whatever,  she  declared  herself,  while  the  squire  took 
down  her  words  and  brought  them  into  legal  form. 
When  she  was  done  she  held  up  her  hand  and  took 
the  oath,  steadily,  though  with  an  unusual  color  in  her 
cheeks  and  an  unusual  sparkle  in  her  fine  black  eyes. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  when  the  declaration  was 
duly  signed  and  sealed,  "  that  I  have  denied,  on  my 
oath,  that  I  am  guilty  of  the  wrong  I  am  accused  of, 
I  wish  to  say  a  word  more  to  my  husband,  in  your 
presence,  Mr.  Thornhill.  I  wish  to  confess  to  him, 
before  you,  that  although  I  have  not  committed  that 
particular  sin  which  scandal  has  led  him  to  suspect  me 
of,  I  have  not  been  a  good  wife.  I  married  him,  I  now 
fear,  without  loving  him.  I  wasted  his  earnings,  and 
I  made  his  heart  anxious  with  my  imprudent  acts. 
But,  God  help  me !  that  is  all  past.  Henceforth  I  have 
no  wish  in  the  world  but  to  be  faithful  to  him,  to  all  the 
obligations  of  wifehood,  in  thought  and  in  deed, — to  do 
by  him  as  a  woman  should  do  by  her  husband.  I  can- 
not hope  always  to  make  good  my  intentions,  but  I 
shall  try  my  best,  and  never  weary  of  trying.  It  is 
certain  that  I  am  a  better  woman  and  a  better  wife  than 
I  ever  was  before,  and  I  say  to  you,  my  husband,  and  to 
you,  Mr.  Thornhill,  that  this  change  in  me,  this  miracle 
of  grace,  has  been  wrought  by  Mr.  Jakes.  So  much 
there  is  between  him  and  me.  How  he  has  done  this 
thing,  I  but  dimly  understand  myself,  but  of  the  thing 


282  Mr.  Jakes 

itself  there  can  be  no  doubt.  My  husband,  instead  of 
blaming  him,  instead  of  suspecting"  him  of  doing  evil 
against  you,  instead  of  harboring  hate  toward  him,  you 
ought  to  be  thanking  him,  from  the  bottom  of  your 
heart,  for  having  saved  you  from  the  viper  in  your 
bosom,  for  having  transformed  that  viper  into  a 
human  woman. 

"  But  I  must  not  stop  with  telling  you  what  you 
ought  to  do.  You  have  theatened  Mr.  Jakes.  You 
have  avowed  to  me  your  intention  of  killing  him,  at 
the  first  opportunity.  With  all  sympathy  and  sorrow 
for  what  you  have  suffered  at  my  hands,  I  here  and 
now  warn  you  to  visit  none  of  my  sinning  upon  that 
just  man.  I  warn  you  not  to  do  him  any  the  least 
violence.  I  warn  you  that  if  you  put  so  much  as  a 
straw  in  his  way,  to  make  him  trouble,  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you." 

Troy  did  not  open  his  lips  to  speak,  from  first  to 
last,  but  sat  by,  listening  moodily,  and  chewing  hard 
at  his  cigar.  There  was  a  hardness  in  his  face, — the 
implied  threat  went  against  the  grain,  and  you  would 
guess  that  the  man  was  by  no  means  giving  up  his  fell 
designs.  But  when  his  wife,  having  spoken  thus 
plainly,  rose  and  went  over  to  him,  and  laid  her  arm 
about  his  neck,  and  kissed  him,  tears  sprang  to  his 
eyes, — you  could  see  the  anger  and  the  hatred  melting 
under  that  touch.  And  so  they  went  out,  back  to  their 
home,  through  the  gaping  crowd. 

Afton? 

It  was  like  being  played  with.  The  Fates  had  a 
string  to  their  stone, — just  as  it  was  about  to  splash 
grandly,  they  jerked  it  back.  Could  anything  be  more 
trying  to  the  patience  of  a  people  long  deprived  ? 

Afton  was  sore, — no  mistake  about  that. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SALT   WITHOUT  SAVOR 

AFTER  two  years  of  ministry,  Mr.  Jakes  lost  the 
favor  of  Squire  Thornhill,  and  that  was  the  beginning 
of  the  end. 

The  Troy  scandal  affected  the  squire  against  his 
pastor  no  more  than  the  Torrelson  scandal  before  it 
had  done, — probably  less,  in  fact,  since  the  credit  of 
the  church  was  doubly  involved.  Mrs.  Troy  had  be- 
come a  regular  attendant  at  the  shrine  of  pure  Chris- 
tianity, and  how  was  a  religious  man,  a  pillar  of  the 
faith,  to  think  the  worse  of  her  for  that?  The  sug- 
gestion that  a  wrongful  passion  for  Mr.  Jakes  was  the 
woman's  real  motive  Thornhill  wouldn't  for  a  moment 
take  seriously, — it  was  too  absurd.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  her  was  only  what  was  likely  to  happen  to 
any  sinner  under  a  proper  preaching  of  the  gospel, — 
she  had  experienced  a  change  of  heart,  was  converted, 
was  genuinely  born  again  in  the  spirit.  Mr.  Jakes 
had  been  imprudent,  none  franker  than  the  squire  to 
confess  that,  and  more's  the  pity, — it  was  any  man's 
place  and  a  clergyman's  especially,  to  shun  even  the 
appearance  of  evil,  and  kissing  and  holding  hands  with 
a  pretty  woman  carried  the  appearance  of  evil  if  any- 
thing did.  But  was  it  not  the  admirable  kindness  of 
the  fellow  which  prompted  the  imprudence,  and  his 

283 


284  Mr.  Jakes 

admirable  simplicity  which  suffered  it?  Though  Mr. 
Jakes's  friends  might  wish  him  a  little  more  endowed 
with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  they  were  more  than 
ever  convinced  that  his  innocence  was  the  innocence  of 
the  dove.  No,  Mr.  Jakes  lost  no  favor  with  the  squire 
on  account  of  Mrs.  Troy — his  fall  from  grace  in  that 
quarter  came  about  in  another  way  entirely. 

The  Thornhill  homestead,  as  already  pointed  out, 
had  long  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  the  finest  in 
Afton,  if  not  in  all  the  county,  and  when  the  Catho- 
lics set  out,  in  a  fateful  day,  to  build  a  residence  for 
their  pastor  which  should  be  far  and  away  finer,  it  was 
like  casting  the  squire  in  the  shade,  a  part  which  he  was 
not  at  all  fitted  to  endure  in  silence  and  humility.  No 
sooner  had  the  news  of  what  impended  got  abroad  than 
he  was  heard  inveighing  against  the  wicked  and  op- 
pressive tax  which  an  arrogant  Romish  priesthood 
was  fastening  on  a  parish  of  free  American  citizens. 
There  was  no  denying  that  the  Catholics  were  for  the 
most  part  poor  people  whose  ordinary  and  inevitable 
burdens  were  almost  too  much  for  them,  and  once  the 
squire  had  raised  the  cry,  others  saw  the  point  and 
joined  in.  But  nobody's  vehemence  quite  equalled  his, 
— he  was  loudest  in  condemnation,  outspoken  on  all 
occasions  and  unstintedly  severe. 

"  Jakes,"  said  he,  broaching  the  matter  to  his  pastor, 
"  why  don't  you  get  after  that  Catholic  priest  ?  He 
ought  to  be  skinned  alive  and  his  hide  hung  on  the 
fence." 

Mr.  Jakes  looked  so  startled  that  the  squire  laughed, 
in  spite  of  the  weight  of  his  indignation. 

"  Figuratively,  of  course,"  he  said,  with  a  lofty 
wave  of  his  hand.  "  What  I  mean  is  that  he  ought  to 
be  showed  up  and  denounced.  He's  a  robber  and  it's 


Salt  Without  Savor  285 

your  business  to  get  after  robbers,  especially  robbers 
the  Jaw  can't  reach.  We  need  more  of  the  spirit  of  the 
church  militant.  Attack  wrong  in  the  concrete,  Jakes, 
— in  the  concrete.  Abstract  truth  is  all  right  as  far  as 
it  goes,  but  it  don't  go  far  enough.  I  can  be  frank 
with  you,  can't  I  ?  " 

Certainly, — the  franker  the  better. 

"  Well,  then,  we're  too  dull  and  prosy.  And  besides, 
if  we  let  wrong  go  unrebuked,  we're  particeps  criminis, 
if  I  know  the  meaning  of  the  term." 

If  the  squire  knew  the  meaning  of  the  term,  Mr. 
Jakes  did  not, — his  blank  face  testified  to  that.  But 
his  face  was  troubled,  too, — he  caught  the  main  drift. 

"  Maybe  you  don't  know  what  the  chap  is  up  to  ?  " 
fumed  the  squire. 

Probably  not, — Mr.  Jakes  admitted  that  he  wasn't 
well  informed. 

"  Well,  he's  building  himself  a  palace,  and  forcing 
his  poverty-stricken  flock  to  pay  for  it.  They're  ig- 
norant, superstitious  foreigners,  and  they  fear  him. 
They  believe  they've  got  to  do  as  he  tells  them, — 
they're  shackled  by  their  superstition.  Shackled, 
Jakes !  They  imagine  he  can  send  them  either  to  hell 
or  to  heaven,  just  as  he  pleases,  and  he  uses  his  power 
over  them  to  feather  his  own  nest.  He  literally  takes 
the  hard-earned  bread  right  out  of  their  mouths,  so 
that  he  may  live  in  a  palace.  He  ought  to  be  de- 
nounced. You  can't  do  a  fitter  thing  than  pull  his 
monstrous  pretensions  to  pieces,  and  the  pretensions 
of  the  Catholic  Church  in  general.  Who  knows  but 
you  may  be  the  means  of  freeing  these  unhappy 
people  from  their  slavery,  as  Luther  was,  and  John 
Knox, — and  Emerson?  It's  the  chance  of  a  lifetime, 
Jakes.  You've  got  your  spurs  to  win.  Don't  let 


286  Mr.  Jakes 

this  magnificent  opportunity  pass  unimproved.  If  you 
do  you'll  regret  it  to  the  end  of  your  days." 

It  was  fierily  put,  but  somehow  Mr.  Jakes  did  not 
inflame.  His  distress  plainly  grew  on  him.  But  there 
wasn't  a  thing  about  him  that  looked  like  taking  fire. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  faltered,  indecisively. 

Thornhill  had  another  torch  to  apply. 

"  There's  a  widow-woman  down  in  your  end  of  the 
town,"  he  went  on,  hotly.  "  She's  the  mother  of  five 
helpless  children,  and  she  supports  them  by  taking  in 
washing.  She's  an  honest,  though  misguided  woman, 
and  she  works  like  a  horse  at  the  hardest  kind  of  work, 
for  the  most  beggarly  wages.  I'm  told  there  are 
times  when  that  family  goes  to  bed  hungry  because 
there's  no  food  in  the  house,  and  anybody  can  see 
they've  no  more  clothes  than  they  need.  She's  a 
Catholic,  and  devout,  and  what  does  she  get  for  it? 
This  lordly  priest  commands  her  to  pay  him  $10  to- 
wards his  new  house.  Think  of  it!  Doesn't  it  make 
your  blood  boil  ?  It  does  mine,  and  I  don't  care  who 
knows  it.  I'm  no  advocate  of  violence,  but  I  confess 
I'd  be  almost  willing  to  help  take  this  priest  out  of  his 
warm  bed  some  night  and  ride  him  on  a  rail  out  of 
town,  with  a  jacket  of  tar  and  feathers  to  keep  him 
from  taking  cold.  His  practices  ought  not  to  be  tol- 
erated in  a  civilized  community." 

If  Mr.  Jakes's  blood  boiled,  in  concert  with  the 
squire's,  it  did  so  in  very  quiet,  inner  fashion.  But 
he  pricked  up  his  ears,  so  to  say.  at  the  story  of  the 
widow,  and  said  he  would  go  and  see  her. 

"  Half-baked,  after  all !  Common  clay,  when  it 
comes  to  the  pinch !  Moral  coward !  "  So  the  squire 
muttered,  to  himself,  after  they  parted, — his  attitude 
was  shifting  ominously. 


Salt  Without  Savor  287 

Mr.  Jakes  was  as  good  as  his  word, — he  went  to 
see  the  widow  right  away.  He  found  the  pretext 
ready  to  his  hand, — she  had  a  small  parcel  of  ground 
planted  to  garden-truck,  but  with  her  many  other 
duties,  more  urgent,  she  was  forced  to  neglect  it,  and 
the  weeds  were  running  riot.  That  was  Mr.  Jakes's 
opportunity, — he  came  over  with  his  hoe  in  his  hand. 
He  found  the  woman  laboring  at  her  tubs,  outside, 
under  the  shade  of  a  great  maple. 

"  May  I  hoe  your  garden  for  you,  ma'am  ?  "  said 
he. 

She  stopped  to  stare  at  him,  through  her  clouds  of 
steam.  She  had  a  pleasant  face,  even  though  the  pre- 
vailing sentiment  in  it,  at  the  moment,  was  distrust. 

"  You  do  be  the  parson  ?  "  she  said. 

Mr.  Jakes  nodded.  "They  call  me  that,"  he 
answered.  ' 

"  And  what  for  should  the  likes  of  you  be  hoeing 
gardens  for  the  likes  of  me  ? "  she  demanded,  and 
then,  as  the  mercenary  motive  presented  its  familiar 
aspect  to  her  mind,  she  added :  "  I  can't  pay  you 
anything." 

"  There'll  be  nothing  to  pay,"  said  Mr.  Jakes.  "  I 
see  your  garden  needs  hoeing,  and  I  know  you  haven't 
much  time,  and  I  have  a  lot,  and  I  wish  you'd  let  me 
help  you  out." 

The  smile  that  broke  over  the  widow's  rosy  face 
lighted  it  up  as  the  rising  sun  lights  the  face  of  the 
morning. 

"  If  I  wasn't  near  old  enough  to  be  the  mother  of 
ye,  I'd  sure  have  my  suspicions ! "  she  cried,  and 
doubled  herself  up  with  laughter.  And  Mr.  Jakes 
laughed,  too, — the  humor  of  the  situation  made  them 
good  friends  forthwith. 


288  Mr.  Jakes 

The  garden  was  very  small  indeed.  No  part  of  it 
was  far  from  the  tubs  under  the  maple,  and  while  Mr. 
Jakes  hoed  and  the  woman  washed  they  kept  up  a 
pretty  steady  conversation.  They  spoke  of  a  number 
of  things, — first  of  all  the  common  things  that  com- 
mon people  talk  about.  When  these  common  things 
were  exhausted,  the  woman  grew  confidential, — told 
about  herself  and  her  troubles,  and  about  her  hopes, 
which  were  built  on  her  children.  She  introduced  the 
little  folks,  one  by  one,  as  they  chanced  to  put  in  an 
appearance.  Four  of  them  were  girls,  but  her  especial 
pride  was  the  fifth,  a  toddling  boy. 

"  He's  to  be  a  priest,  God  willing,"  she  said,  with 
swelling  bosom. 

After  that  she  was  silent  for  a  little,  while  she 
bobbed  vigorously  up  and  down  over  her  washboard. 
When  she  straightened  up  again,  there  was  a  shade  of 
anxiety  in  her  clear  blue  eyes. 

"  You're  such  a  fine  young  man,  it's  a  pity  you're  a 
heretic,"  she  said,  bluntly.  "  It's  a  pity  you  haven't 
the  true  faith.  Ah,  me!  how  can  people  be  such 
unbelievers  ?  "  and  she  heaved  a  mighty  sigh. 

"  Tell  me  about  this  true  faith  of  yours,"  said  Mr. 
Jakes,  showing  that  he  was  greatly  interested. 

She  was  willing,  a  thousand  times  willing.  Of 
course  she  couldn't  tell  him  all  about  it,  because  that 
would  take  too  long,  but  she  would  tell  him  something. 
Who  knew  but  it  might  be  for  the  saving  of  his  soul, 
please  God  ?  Now  there  was  confession,  to  begin  with 
that.  How  could  a  body  possibly  live  without  confes- 
sion? Oh,  the  dreadful  load  of  sin  piling  up  and 
piling  up  till  it  was  near  choking  you,  and  then  you 
go  to  confession  and  have  it  all  lifted  off — "  Whe — 


Salt  Without  Savor  289 

ew !  "  Not  otherwise  could  the  widow  indicate  the 
relief  it  was. 

Her  countenance  was  ablaze  with  joy,  confronting 
him.  "  It's  when  you've  troubles  come  on  you  that 
you  find  out  what  Holy  Mother  Church  is !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, eagerly,  forgetful  of  her  washing  and  lean- 
ing her  dripping  arms  on  the  rim  of  the  tub.  "  It's 
like  having  your  own  mother  always  by  you,  to  run 
and  put  your  head  in  her  lap  when  things  go  wrong. 
God  has  laid  his  hand  heavy  on  me,  but  he  hasn't  let 
me  be  born  a  heretic,  blessed  be  He !  " 

Then  she  bethought  herself,  and  flew  at  the  work 
again,  and  there  was  another  silence.  It  was  broken 
by  Mr.  Jakes. 

"  You  have  to  pay  a  good  deal  in  support  of  your 
church,  don't  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  A  good  deal  is  it?"  she  rejoined,  a  little  nettled, 
as  if  a  sore  spot  had  be^n  touched.  "  And  whose  is  the 
money  but  the  dear  Lord's,  anyway?  Every  bit  of 
it !  And  if  He  lets  me  keep  enough  to  feed  me  and 
my  babies,  who  am.  I  to  begrudge  him  the  rest  ?  And 
besides,  it  gets  me  to  think  of  the  church  more  as  my 
own.  I  gave  $5  for  the  new  altars,  and  when  I  pray 
before  them  I  think  of  that,  and  I  believe  God  thinks 
of  it,  too.  I  gave  $5  for  the  bell,  too,  and  it  is  the 
greater  comfort  when  I  hear  it  calling  me.  And  now 
I'm  just  after  giving  $10  to  the  new  house.  Thanks 
•be  to  God,  I  had  it  to  give.  Father  Clancy  he  spoke 
to  me  and  he  says,  '  Mrs.  Hugh,'  says  he,  '  we  expect 
$10  of  you,'  and  I  says,  right  back,  '  Father  Clancy,' 
says  I,  '  I've  got  the  money  ready  for  you,  glory  be  to 
God ! '  that  was  what  I  said." 

It  took  all  of  two  afternoons  to  hoe  the  garden,  and 
in  that  time  the  widow,  though  she  carried  on  her 


290  Mr.  Jakes 

washing  fairly  well,  managed  to  say  much.  And  more 
than  once  she  cried  out,  all  radiant  with  laughter,  that 
if  she  wasn't  near  old  enough  to  be  the  mother  of  him, 
why,  just  naturally  she  should  have  her  suspicions. 
And  anyway,  she  wanted  to  save  his  soul.  The  pity 
was  so  fine  a  young  man  should  be  a  heretic,  and  a 
stranger  to  the  consolations  of  the  true  faith. 

Some  days  later,  the  minister  and  the  squire  met 
again. 

"  Hello,  Jakes !  "  said  Thornhill,  affecting  his  usual 
brisk  cordiality.  "  By  the  way,  when  are  you  going  to 
get  after  our  friend  Clancy,  the  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing?  " 

Mr.  Jakes  shook  his  head,  and  the  squire  concealed 
his  displeasure  no  longer. 

"  Will  you  neglect  to  denounce  an  open  and  un- 
blushing wrong?  "  he  demanded. 

Mr.  Jakes  did  not  answer  and  the  squire  bridled. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  he 
has  wrung  $10  out  of  that  poor  washerwoman?"  he 
blustered. 

"  I  went  to  see  the  woman,"  Mr.  Jakes  replied, 
quietly. 

"  Of  course  she  doesn't  know  she's  a  gudgeon.  All 
the  more  reason  why  you  should  speak  out,  for  her 
enlightenment  and  the  enlightenment  of  others  like 
her." 

Once  more  Mr.  Jakes  did  not  answer,  yet  his  si- 
lence argued  no  uncertainty.  That  was  the  provoking 
part  of  it,  the  placid  indifference  with  which  the  man 
heard  this  trumpet  call  to  duty.  The  squire  was  get- 
ting red  in  the  face. 

"  Certainly  you  don't  wish  me  to  believe  that  you 
tolerate  this  Romish  superstition,  that  you  have  any- 


Salt  Without  Savor  291 

thing  for  it  but  unrelenting  hatred?"  he  snarled,  bit- 
terly to  intimate  his  own  attitude. 

Silence,  only  silence, — Mr.  Jakes  was  gazing  off  into 
space  almost  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  a  word. 

The  squire  rose  to  that  lofty  level  of  moral  sub- 
limity where  loud  talk  has  no  place.  "  Do  you,"  he 
asked,  in  tones  subduedly  conversational  but  freighted 
with  deep  meaning,  "  decline  to  denounce  this  man 
Clancy?" 

"  I  have  no  such  fruit  to  show  as  he  has, — how 
should  I  denounce  him  ?  I  only  wish  the  faith  I  preach 
were  capable  of  making  a  soul  so  good  and  brave  as 
the  faith  which  Clancy  preaches  has  made  that  washer- 
woman." 

So  spake  Mr.  Jakes.  The  squire  was  going  to  say 
something,  but  he  choked  over  it,  checked  himself  and 
ended  with  turning  abruptly  on  his  heel  and  hurrying 
away. 

The  new  rectory  went  up,  the  Thornhill  mansion 
was  no  longer  the  finest  in  the  village,  and  a  very 
robust  and  persistent  rumor  was  accusing  Mr.  Jakes  of 
wandering  after  strange  gods.  What  was  Mr.  Jakes's 
faith,  anyway?  The  squire  took  time  to  cool  off  and 
think  the  matter  over,  but  he  wasn't  the  less  offended 
for  that, — he  was  only  the  more  adroit  in  his  manner 
of  striking  back.  He  it  was  who  started  the  rumor, 
but  in  such  a  way  that  nobody  but  himself  knew  how 
it  began.  What  he  did  was  to  broach,  very  delicately 
and  in  selected  quarters,  the  question  as  to  Mr.  Jakes's 
faith, — what  did  the  pastor  believe,  anyway?  He  con- 
fessed, when  the  rumor  had  got  fairly  on  its  feet,  to 
sundry  misgivings,  and  as  time  passed  and  the  congre- 
gation were  more  and  more  concerned  over  the  busi- 
ness, these  misgivings  grew  on  him  till  he  was  saying, 


292  Mr.  Jakes 

more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  that  Mr.  Jakes  wasn't 
any  sounder,  doctrinally,  than  he  should  be.  Urged  to 
specify,  the  squire  put  on  his  most  portentous  air  and 
hoarsely  whispered  that  Mr.  Jakes  was  infected  with 
Jesuitism. 

Dreadful !  Nothing,  of  course,  could  so  pollute  the 
fanes  of  the  true  Christianity  as  an  infection  of 
Jesuitism. 

The  squire  was  willing  to  justify  the  belief  that 
was  in  him.  In  the  strictest  confidence,  that  is  to  say, 
in  such  a  way  that  it  was  all  over  town  before  night, 
he  repeated  what  Mr.  Jakes  had  said  about  the  faith 
which  Father  Clancy  preached.  That  was  damning 
enough,  to  be  sure,  but  it  wasn't  all.  Corroboratively, 
there  was  Cecilia  and  the  gesture  she  had  seen  Mr. 
Jakes  make  that  eventful  evening  when  first  the  new 
minister  broke  bread  under  the  squire's  roof.  Cecilia 
had  testified  at  once,  first  to  her  mother  and  then  to 
her  father,  but  Thornhill  was  highly  pleased  with  his 
pastor  just  then,  and  that  made  a  great  difference. 
The  squire's  feelings  were  the  major  premise  all 
through,  and  now  that  they  were  made  sore  by  Mr. 
Jakes's  flagrant  contumacy,  that  which  he  had  waved 
away  as  a  trifle  was  recalled  and  made  much  of.  It  was 
a  masterly  touch  when  Thornhill  blamed  himself  for 
not  having  taken  warning  at  once.  How  could  he  have 
been  so  blind?  The  congregation  were  profoundly 
affected.  Hints  of  a  Jesuit  conspiracy  began  to  be 
heard,  and  what  could  be  more  terrifying,  all  things 
considered,  than  a  Jesuit  conspiracy?  Of  course  the 
squire  didn't  believe  there  was  any  sort  of  a  con- 
spiracy, but  for  the  purpose  he  had  formed  there  need 
be  a  public  sentiment  aroused,  of  a  strong  character, 


Salt  Without  Savor  293 

and  so  the  story  that  Rome  had  designs  on  Afton  got 
abroad. 

This  purpose,  briefly,  was  to  bring  Mr.  Jakes  to 
some  sort  of  trial  before  the  world,  with  the  squire 
himself  in  the  part  of  prosecutor.  Heresy  trials  were 
filling  considerable  space  in  the  newspapers,  in  those 
days,  and  why  shouldn't  Afton  come  in  for  some  of 
the  fame,  and,  along  with  Afton,  the  squire  ?  " 

There  were  difficulties,  to  be  sure,  even  after  an 
adequate  public  sentiment  had  been  worked  up.  Im- 
primis, nobody  had  ever  heard  of  a  heresy  trial  in  a 
Unitarian  church, — so  far  as  the  available  records 
disclosed,  there  was  no  precedent  for  such  a  procedure. 
But  the  squire's  enterprise  was  not  to  be  dashed.  He 
wouldn't  have  a  heresy  trial,  in  the  ordinary  sense, — 
it  should  be,  rather,  a  public  scrutiny  of  the  pastor's 
faith  and  conduct,  instituted  (another  masterly  touch) 
in  order  to  the  vindication  of  these  against  certain 
current  aspersions.  A  series  of  questions  should  be 
propounded  to  Mr.  Jakes,  coram  populo,  by  answer- 
ing which  he  might  clear  his  skirts.  That  was  the 
style  in  which  the  squire  had  it  worded,  in  the  notice  of 
the  public  scrutiny,  which  all  the  world  was  bidden  to 
attend ;  but  all  the  while  his  expectation  was  that  there 
would  be  no  vindication,  that  Mr.  Jakes  would  be 
utterly  overwhelmed,  anything  less  would  smack  of 
defeat  for  the  prosecutor.  Indeed,  so  confident  was 
Thornhill  that  as  the  time  drew  on  his  chief  fear 
was  lest  the  culprit  be  frightened  and  run  away,  thus 
to  take  the  wind  out  of  the  prosecutor's  sails  at  a 
stroke. 

Such  fear  was  groundless,  however.  Mr.  Jakes 
chose  to  stay  and  face  the  music. 

He  was  given  due  notice  of  the  public  scrutiny  and 


294  Mr.  Jakes 

of  the  questions  which  were  to  be  propounded  to  him 
on  that  occasion.  He  wasn't  much  affected.  He 
spoke  to  nobody  about  the  business,  not  even  to  Dr. 
Robert,  who  knew  nothing  of  it  till  it  was  all  over. 
Afterwards,  when  the  circumstances  were  discussed 
minutely,  it  occurred  to  some  that  there  had  been  a 
shade  of  listlessness  about  Mr.  Jakes,  toward  the  last, 
as  if  he  were  tired  and  had  given  up  caring  much, — 
and  still  he  came  and  went  as  usual.  He  preached  his 
sermon  every  Sunday,  and  during  the  week  he  busied 
himself  in  the  old  way.  He  went  over  and  hoed  the 
widow's  garden  again,  for  it  was  June,  and  the  weeds 
were  not  to  be  conquered  with  once  putting  down. 
He  worked  out  with  the  farmers,  as  the  chance  offered, 
and  it  offered  to  him  as  often  as  anyone,  because  he 
had  the  name  of  being  faithful  and  efficient  help.  And 
all  the  while  he  was  characteristically  odd, — kept 
people  talking  right  up  to  the  end.  A  farmer  who  had 
ten  acres  of  clover  lying  in  the  swath  came  in  a  great 
pickle  and  offered  Mr.  Jakes  $2  a  day  and  found,  yet 
what  did  Mr.  Jakes  do  but  go  instead  with  another 
farmer  who  had  lain  sick  in  bed  all  the  spring  and 
could  pay  him  nothing  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OUT  OF  THIS  BODY  OF  DEATH 

AFTON  waited  for  no  second  bidding, — unlike  the 
king  in  the  parable  the  squire  hadn't  to  send  into  the 
byways  and  hedges  to  find  those  who  would  attend 
upon  his  feast.  He  had  dextrously  played  with  the 
curiosity  of  his  neighbors, — nobody  but  the  inner  few 
knew  precisely  what  the  charges  were,  but  every- 
body was  permitted  to  understand  that  they  might 
cover  a  wide  latitude.  For  aught  the  general  public 
were  informed,  the  Troy  affair  and  the  Torrelson 
affair,  to  speak  of  no  lesser  affairs,  were  to  be  brought 
up  and  aired, — Afton  would  be  on  the  safe  side,  any- 
way, and  so  there  was  a  great  crowd,  a  feverishly  ex- 
pectant crowd.  The  church  didn't  hold  the  half  of  all 
who  came.  They  pressed  up  about  the  windows  from 
the  outside, — they  gathered  on  the  roof  of  the  horse- 
shed  until  it  sagged,  though  from  that  point  they 
could  see  little  and  hear  nothing. 

Down  in  front,  the  pulpit  and  organ  had  been  pushed 
back  into  a  corner,  and  a  table  set  out,  with  a  chair 
at  either  side  of  it.  Beyond  the  table,  against  the  wall, 
were  five  more  chairs,  facing  the  congregation.  Afton 
came  early,  and  sat  and  stood  about,  staring  at  these 
things,  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour. 

Sharp  on  the  stroke  of  eight  (it  had  clearly  ap- 
peared, from  the  start,  that  more  people  would  come  if 

295 


296  Mr.  Jakes 

the  scrutiny  were  held  in  the  evening),  the  door  of  the 
study  opened  and  the  squire  came  out,  side  by  side 
with  Mr.  Jakes,  and  followed  by  five  trustees  of  the 
church.  They  made  a  stir  and  there  was  more  to  it 
than  the  mere  breaking  up  of  a  suspense  long  ac- 
cumulating,— the  spectacle  of  prosecutor  and  prose- 
cuted walking  together  was  too  suggestive  of  fine 
Christian  sentiment  not  to  go  to  Afton's  heart  espe- 
cially. 

The  five  trustees  mounted  to  the  five  chairs  and  sat 
down,  forming  a  sort  of  neutral  background  to  the 
picture,  while  the  squire  took  his  place  at  one  side  of 
the  table  and  Mr.  Jakes  at  the  other.  Of  all  the  people 
there  Mr.  Jakes  seemed  least  interested  in  the 
proceedings, — after  it  was  over  most  everybody  could 
recall  having  had  the  impression  that  the  respondent 
didn't  care  much  whether  school  kept  or  not.  But 
the  squire  was  full  of  importance, — no  indifference  in 
his  bearing  as  he  solemnly  busied  himself  among  the 
books  with  which  the  table  was  loaded. 

After  an  interval  of  profound  silence,  the  chairman 
of  the  trustees,  in  the  middle  place,  asked  Mr.  Jakes 
to  invoke  the  divine  blessing.  That  was  a  fine  Chris- 
tian touch,  too, — or  the  chairman's  part  in  it  was,  at 
least.  Mr.  Jakes  didn't  distinguish  himself.  He 
hesitated,  rose  with  visible  reluctance  and  mumbled  the 
Lord's  prayer.  Surely  something  more  was  due  the 
occasion  and  the  presence. 

The  chairman  stood  up  and  spoke  a  piece, — nobody 
could  doubt  it  was  a  piece,  from  the  sound  of  it. 

"  We  are  here,"  said  he,  "  to  perform  a  duty,  deli- 
cate, perhaps,  but  a  duty  none  the  less.  Certain 
doubts  having  been  expressed  as  to  the  faith  and  con- 
duct of  the  pastor  of  this  church  " — bowing  to  Mr. 


Out  of  This  Body  of  Death          297 

Jakes — "  the  society  have  no  alternative  in  justice 
but  to  afford  him  the  opportunity  of  a  public  vindica- 
tion. To  this  end  certain  inquiries  have  been  framed 
and  these  will  now  be  propounded  to  the  respondent. 
Mr.  Thornhill  " — bowing  to  the  squire — "  has  the 
floor." 

The  prosecutor  took  plenty  of  time  to  adjust  his 
glasses  and  clear  his  throat. 

"  Mr.  Jakes,"  he  said,  when  he  had  made  due  obeis- 
ance to  the  chairman  and  his  sanhedrim,  "  you  have 
been  notified  of  the  questions  which  it  is  proposed  to 
ask  yon.  Shall  I  put  them  seriatim  or  en  bloc?  " 

Not  one  person  in  twenty  knew  what  the  squire 
meant,  but  the  feeling  was  universal  that  he  had 
scored.  Every  eye  was  turned  on  the  respondent. 
Mr.  Jakes  moved  slightly,  in  his  chair,  but  made  no 
reply.  Some  imagined  they  saw  a  faint  smile  hover 
about  his  lips,  but  that  might  easily  have  been  an  illu- 
sion of  the  light. 

The  prosecutor  waited  a  little  and  went  on,  ponder- 
ously :  "  Very  well.  Since  you  signify  no  choice,  I 
will  ask  them  seriatim." 

He  stopped  to  open  two  or  three  books  and  lay  them 
out  to  the  right  and  left  of  him, — nothing  could  be 
more  fatal  to  the  desired  effect  than  any  the  least 
hurry. 

"  Firstly,"  he  said,  when  all  was  ready  to  his  satis- 
faction, "  what  is  your  belief  as  to  the  divinity  of 
Christ?" 

"  I  have  none,"  replied  Mr.  Jakes,  pretty  languidly, 
and  without  rising. 

Afton  was  unschooled  in  the  niceties  of  theology, 
but  it  sufficiently  understood  that  an  extraordinary 
and  unexpected  rejoinder  had  been  elicited — its  jaw 


298  Mr.  Jakes 

dropped.  In  the  midst  of  a  great  hush  the  squire  put 
his  secondly: 

"  What  is  your  belief  as  to  the  inerrancy  of  the 
Scriptures?  " 

Once  more  the  extraordinary  reply, — Mr.  Jakes 
had  no  belief  on  that  head  either. 

"  Do  you  hold  it  literally  possible  that  water  was 
changed  into  wine  and  that  the  dead  were  raised  to 
life?"  asked  the  squire,  with  the  air  of  pinning  his 
man  down. 

"  It's  of  no  consequence  one  way  or  the  other," 
answered  Mr.  Jakes,  refusing  to  be  pinned. 

The  prosecutor  had  more  business  with  his  books, 
until  a  suitable  time  had  elapsed,  whereupon  he  pro- 
ceeded to  his  thirdly,  raising  his  voice  some,  in  its 
honor : 

"  Thirdly,  sir,  what  is  your  belief  as  to  the  sub- 
liminal self,  and  its  effect  on  human  responsibility  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  of  the  subliminal  self  until  I  read 
your  question.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  it," 
quoth  Mr.  Jakes. 

"  I  mean,"  and  here  the  squire  sank  to  an  awesome 
whisper,  "  the  subconscious  self." 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  means,  either,  but  I  dare- 
say it  is  equally  something  which  doesn't  matter." 

Still  the  precise  significance  of  all  these  replies  was 
lost  on  the  multitude,  yet  still  there  was  no  getting 
away  from  the  impression  that  they  were  very  extra- 
ordinary indeed,  and  very  unexpected.  Nor  was  it 
possible  to  doubt  that  the  squire  was  baffled  and  dis- 
turbed. Anybody  could  see  that  the  respondent  was 
making  no  issue,  that  the  prosecutor  was  being  put  to 
none  of  the  vast  resources  which  he  had  so  cleverly 
marshaled.  Not  a  book,  for  instance,  had  he  found 


Out  of  This  Body  of  Death          299 

occasion  to  appeal  to,  and  there  was  only  one  question 
left. 

The  squire  and  the  sanhedrim  had  canvassed  the 
possibility  of  an  adjournment  being  necessary,  for  lack 
of  time  to  dispose  of  all  the  inquiries  in  one  evening, — 
they  were  prepared  to  adjourn  if  the  occasion  should 
demand.  At  shortest  the  squire  hadn't  thought  of 
culminating  in  his  "  finally  "  much  before  midnight, 
and  here  he  was  about  to  culminate  before  half  past 
eight.  It  was  disconcerting,  but  there  was  nothing 
else: 

"  Finally,  sir,  what  is  your  belief  as  to  the  atone- 
ment ?  " 

It  straightway  appeared  that  Mr.  Jakes  had  a  belief 
on  that  head, — at  anyrate  he  stood  up  and  the  squire 
sat  down.  Issue  was  to  be  joined,  after  all?  People 
asked  themselves  that,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Jakes,  and 
what  they  beheld  caused  them  to  forget  all  about 
issues  and  scrutinies, — his  aspect  was  so  unfamiliar. 
There  was  particularly  his  fashion  of  lifting  up  his 
eyes,  not  to  confront  the  world  and  his  accusers,  but 
rather  to  ignore  them,  as  if  there  were  for  him  no 
world  and  no  accusers, — and  there  was  more;  cer- 
tainly Mr.  Jakes  wasn't  himself.  And  his  discourse, 
who  ever  heard  so  disjointed  and  senseless  a  speech 
from  him? 

A  string  of  jerky  phrases,  that  was  all : 

"  Jesus — for  men — atonement  for  all — beasts  on 
Jewish  altars  slain — no,  not  that — the  death  he  died — 
death  on  the  cross — complete — 

"  The  Good  Samaritan — 

"  To  follow — the  cross — 

"  Atonement — at  one — the  will  of  God  in  their 
hearts — good  will — God's  will — 


300  Mr.  Jakes 

"  Nobody  understands — nobody — 

"  The  Jews — blood  of  beasts — blood  of  Jesus — 

"  Religion — the  process — 

"  Nobody—" 

His  voice  was  no  clarion  blast  to  begin  with,  and 
it  weakened  and  was  more  and  more  gaspy  as  he  went 
on.  Even  within  the  church  not  all  could  hear  him. 
Outside  someone  had  called  out,  "  Louder !  "  and 
another,  "  Speak  up,  parson !  "  But  he  was  done 
speaking.  He  was  seen  to  sway  back  against  his  chair, 
— it  slipped  away  from  him,  but  he  reached  out,  grop- 
ingly, and  caught  the  arm.  Steadying  himself  by  that 
he  sank  down,  quietly,  but  he  missed  the  seat  and  went 
to  the  floor.  For  a  moment  he  held  a  sitting  posture 
there,  and  then,  with  a  scarcely  audible  moan,  he 
toppled  over,  prostrate  and  perfectly  still. 

The  squire  and  the  sanhedrim  sprang  to  him,  all 
kindness  and  solicitude.  The  congregation,  after  a 
brief  period  of  stupor,  broke  into  excited  uproar.  Sup- 
pressed screams  told  of  a  terror  in  here  and  there  a 
timid  heart,  and  back  by  the  door  there  was  a  surging 
to  get  out,  as  if  there  was  danger  to  flee  from.  The 
feeling  lay  on  all,  no  doubt,  that  a  very  dread  presence 
had  come  among  them. 

The  assemblage  was  fully  half  women.  Two  of 
these  singled  themselves  out. 

One  was  Mrs.  Troy.  She  was  the  first  to  reach  Mr. 
Jakes.  Before  anybody  else  could  think  of  doing  any- 
thing, she  was  kneeling  beside  him,  chafing  his  hands 
and  forehead,  and  fanning  him.  She  was  entirely  col- 
lected, however.  She  directed  that  he  be  removed  at 
once  to  her  house,  and  she  sent  her  husband  to  fetch  a 
conveyance. 

The  other  woman  was  Nannie  Jones,  and  she  was 


Out  of  This  Body  of  Death          301 

distracted.  She  knelt  likewise,  but  only  to  caress  the 
senseless  man  and  beseech  him  to  look  at  her.  When 
Mrs.  Troy  spoke,  in  her  calm,  collected  way,  Nannie 
flew  into  a  great  passion. 

"  You  dirty  drab !  "  she  shrieked,  and  would  have 
assailed  her  rival  with  blows,  only  that  her  father  and 
mother  came  and  took  her  away. 

They  put  Mr.  Jakes  to  bed  and  pretty  soon  he 
opened  his  eyes.  He  was  perfectly  clear  in  his  mind, 
for  the  moment,  and  asked  that  Dr.  Robert  be  brought. 

"  For  fear  I  shall  not  be  here  to  meet  him,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  give  you  a  message  for  him." 

His  message  was  this: 

"  Tell  the  good  Dr.  Robert,  for  me,  that  though  the 
Christian  Church  is  indeed  a  dead  corpse,  she  is  not 
more  dead  than  Lazarus  was.  The  touch  of  her 
Master  will  yet  restore  her  to  life." 

Those  were  his  last  words.  Right  away  he  lapsed 
easily  back  into  unconsciousness  and  woke  no  more. 
His  life  went  out  with  the  night. 

Dr.  Robert  came  and  saw  him  buried,  in  the  tangled 
little  cemetery  at  Afton.  There  was  a  gallant  funeral, 
for  now  people  thought  only  of  the  sweetness  and 
goodness  of  Mr.  Jakes.  There  were  flowers,  for  it 
was  the  time  of  flowers,  and  genuine  tears  were  not 
lacking. 

When  all  was  done,  the  doctor  drove  home  alone, 
and  made  his  last  final  entry  in  the  diary. 

It  was  in  these  words : 

"  Him  also  have  they  crucified." 


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"  A  good  story  ...  a  fine  likeable  American  man  and  a 
charming  English  girl  .  .  .  personages  standing  out  clearly 
.  .  .  the  stirring  action  and  picturesque  setting  will  help  many 
a  pleased  reader  to  compass  a  verdict  of  praise." — Chicago  Record 
Herald. 

"A  vivid  romance,  combining  marked  virility  with  the  most 
delicate  play  of  fancy  and  of  sentiment  .  .  .  holds  the  interest 
from  beginning  to  end.  The  surprise  of  the  narrative  is  the  con- 
summate ease  with  which  two  women  writers  handle  the  details  of 
the  great  electrical  power  plant  and  mammoth  business  enterprise." 
— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

THE  PILGRIM'S  MARCH 

By  H.  H.  BASHFORD 

320  pp.  I2mo.     Third  Printing,  $1.50. 

A  happily  written  English  story  with  a  theme  of  wide  appeal.  A 
likable  youth  with  artistic  tendencies  is  converted,  for  a  time  at  least, 
to  the  ways,  and  works,  and  daughter  of  a  puritan  family.  The  sit- 
uation is  worked  out  with  humor  and  in  an  atmosphere  of  good 
breeding. 

"Extremely  clever  and  charming." — Prof.  Wm.Lyon  Phetys  of  Yale. 

"A  sureness  of  touch,  a  sympathetic  understanding  that  deserve 
high  piaise."  —  The  Bookman. 

"  Really  charming.  They're  all  very  real,  these  good  people — 
altogether  too  nice  and  wholesomely  lovable  to  shut  away  with  the 
memory  of  their  story's  single  reading." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  Those  critics  who  have  asserted  that  all  possible  plots  have  been 
used  will  be  compelled  to  retreat.  A  remarkable  first  novel."—  The 
Living  Age,  Boston. 

***If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publisher  will  send,  from 
time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


By  Alice  Duer  Miller,  author  of  "  Calderon's  Prisoner  "  and 
"A  Modern  Obstacle.''     $1.25. 

Amusing  and  clever.  A  clean-cut  young  man,  just  back  from 
South  America,  is  welcomed  as  a  prodigal  son,  into  an  exclusive 
New  York  family  of  entire  strangers  and  where  a  lovely  girl  really 
believes  she  is  "a  sister  to  him." 

HOMESPUN 

A  Story  of  Some  New  England  Folk.  By  Lottie  Blair 
Parker,  author  of  the  plays,  "  'Way  Down  East"  and  "Un- 
der Southern  Skies."  $1.50. 

A  humorous  story  of  New  England  village  life,  revealing  the  same 
marked  skill  in  character  delineation  and  plot  development  that 
made  the  author's  plays  appeal  so  strongly  to  the  sympathies  of 
audiences  the  country  over. 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  critics  in  America  who  saw  the  Ms. 
wrote  : 

"As  a  study  of  New  England  village  life,  it  seems  to  me  quite  ex- 
ceptional— much  good  realism  and  plenty  of  humor.  I  should  say 
that  as  a  story  ...  it  seems  to  me  to  have  broad  human  appeal." 

MELCHISEDEC 

By  Ramsey  Benson,  author  of  "A  Lord  of  Lands."    $1.50. 

This  novel  is  in  quite  a  different  vein  than  the  author's  first ;  it  is 
a  tale  of  the  Northwest  with  a  strong  appeal  to  those  interested  in 
present  religious  tendencies,  but  with  the  human  interest  dominating 
it. 

It  is  the  story  of  a  quarter-blood  Indian  waif,  who  has  much  the 
quality  of  a  mystic.  An  instinct  prompts  him  to  leave  the  northern 
wilds  where  he  was  born,  and  leads  him  to  singular  adventures 
among  the  Palefaces  and  through  these  to  the  discovery  of  his  mission, 
which  he  conceives  to  be  the  recall  of  the  Christian  ministry  to  the 
way  whereby  it  is  to  save  the  world.  In  the  pursuit  of  this  mission 
he  encounters  various  adversaries,  not  least  among  them  falling  in 
love,  which  is  near  being  the  ruin  of  all  his  plans. 

***If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publisher  will  send,  from 
time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


THE   RUNAWAY  PLACE 

A  MAY  IDYL  OF  MANHATTAN 

By  WALTER  P.  EATON  and  ELISE  M.  UNDERBILL.     $1.25. 

Men  and  maids  have  met  before  in  Central  Park  ("THE  RUN- 
AWAY PLACE");  but  the  man  in  this  idyl  was  out  of  a  job — which 
was  entirely  volitional,  and  he  was  proud  of  it ! — and  the  mysterious 
maid  was  on  a  vacation  from  Somewhere;  so,  being  loafers,  they  had 
time  to  be  lovers,  and  to  meet  adventures  by  the  way.  Really, 
though,  they  were  only  children,  having  forgotten  to  grow  up.  The 
authors  win  the  sympathy  of  those  who  have  not  forgotten  childhood 
fancies,  whims,  and  recollections,  though  the  characters  degenerate 
into  grown-ups  now  and  then. 

There  is  something  here  of  Kenneth  Graham's  half  playful,  half 
wistful  love  of  vanished  days. 

Mr.  Eaton  made  his  reputation  as  a  dramatic  critic  of  the  New 
York  Sun,  and  as  the  author  of  "The  American  Stage  of  To-day." 
Miss  Underbill  is  new  as  a  writer,  but  not  as  a  student  of  children. 

THE  LONG  GALLERY 

By  EVA  LATHBURY.     $1.50. 

This  romance  is  dominated  by  the  influence  of  dead  ancestors 
whose  pictures  hang  in  the  long  gallery  of  Southern  Court  in 
England.  Contrasting  with  that  is  a  Kenneth-Graham-like  glamor 
of  the  days  spent  in  the  old  play  room  at  the  Court.  Three  un- 
usually attractive  women  are  the  leading  figures.  The  oldest  is  one 
whose  mystery  is  connected  with  The  Long  Gallery.  The  other  two 
are  charming  girls,  well  contrasted,  but  only  one  of  them  with  a 
mystery.  The  men  who  woo  them  are  also  clearly  drawn.  There 
is  considerable  wit,  with  the  verbal  fencing  of  clever  folk,  while  at 
other  times  the  note  of  tragedy  is  audible. 

***  If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publisher  will  send,  from 
time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


FOR  TRAVELERS 

By  CLARA  CRAWFORD  PERKINS 
FRENCH  CATHEDRALS  AND  CHATEAUX 

Two  volumes,  with  photogravure  frontispieces  and  62  half-tone 
plates.  8vo.  $5.00  net,  boxed,  carriage  extra. 

Covers  the  cathedrals,  palaces,  and  chateaux  around  which  so 
much  of  history  and  romance  has  gathered.  The  author  has  a  full 
knowledge  and  comprehension  of  her  subject. 

While  appealing  especially  to  those  who  have  visited  France,  its 
elaborate  illustrations  and  historical  and  architectural  comment  make 
this  work  an  admirable  guide  to  intelligent  sight-seeing. 

"A  most  valuable  work.  A  more  complete  study  of  the  architecture,  or 
clever  scheme  of  giving  lucid  pictures  of  its  history  could  not  be  desired." 

—  The  Reader. 
"  Of  genuine  artistic  value.    Notable  for  its  excellent  arrangement." 

— Boston  Herald. 

THE  BUILDERS  OF  SPAIN 

Two  volumes,  with  two  photogravure  frontispieces  and  62  half- 
tone plates.  8vo.  $5.00  net,  boxed,  carriage  extra. 

A  sumptuous  and  popular  work  similar  to  "French  Cathedrals 
and  Chateaux  "  in  scope,  appearance,  and  careful  arrangement. 

"  A  very  delightful  book." — Baltimore  Sun. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  take  up  a  beautiful  book  and  find  that  the  subject  matter 
is  quite  as  satisfactory  as  the  artistic  illustrations,  the  rich  covers  and  the  clear 

Erint  ..  The  author  handles  with  much  skill  a  subject  with  which  she   is 
tmiliar  and  one  which  is  much  neglected  by  the  average  reader.     The  illus- 
trations, many  of  them  photogravures,  are  far  out  of  the  ordinary  and  add 
much  to  the  text,  for  they  are  illustrations  in  the  true  sense." — Springfield 
Republican.  

POEMS  FOR  TRAVELERS 

Compiled  by  MARY  R.  J.  DuBois.  i6mo.  Cloth,  $1.50 ; 
leather,  $2.50. 

Covers  France,  Germany,  Austria,  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  Greece 
in  some  three  hundred  poems  (nearly  one-third  of  them  by  Americans) 
trom  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  poets.  All  but  some  forty  of 
these  poems  were  originally  written  in  English. 

THE   POETIC  OLD  WORLD 

Compiled  by  Miss  L.  H.  HUMPHREY.  i6mo.  Cloth,  $1.50  ; 
leather,  $2.50. 

Covers  Europe,  including  Spain,  Belgium  and  the  British  Isles, 
in  some  two  hundred  poems  from  about  ninety  poets.  Some  thirty, 
not  originally  written  in  English,  are  given  in  both  the  original  and 
the  best  available  translation. 

***  If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publisher  will  send,  from 
time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  KEW   YORK 


BOOKS  THAT  CHEER 

By  CHARLES  BATTELL  LOOMIS 

Uniform  12rno.     Each,  $1.25. 

A  HOLIDAY  TOUCH 

And  other  tales  of  dauntless  Americans. 

This  volume  consists  chiefly  of  anecdotes  of  Americans  who 
won  out  smiling ;  among  them  are  A  Study  in  Optimism, 
Buffum  and  the  Cannibals,  Uncle  Eli's  Induced  Ambegris,  A 
Dinner  to  Paul,  With  a  Money  King  to  Back  Me,  and  several 
delightful  burlesques,  including  The  Only  Vice  of  Awjul  Adkins 
and  A  Coat  of  Alpaca,  while  a  brace  of  Christmas  stories  in 
highly  contrasted  veins  open  and  close  the  book.  Despite  the 
extravagance  of  the  situations  there  is  often  a  touch  of  quiet 
pathos. 

FOE'S    RAVEN  IN   AN   ELEVATOR 

Being  a  later  edition  of  "More  Cheerful  Americans."  Illus- 
trated by  Mrs.  Shinn  and  others. 

Eighteen  humorous  tales  in  the  vein  of  the  author's  popular 
"Cheerful  Americans,"  with  a  dozen  equally  humorous  pictures, 
six  of  them  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn.  To  these  is  appended 
a  delightfully  satirical  paper  on  "How  to  Write  a  Novel  for 
the  Masses." 

AT.  Y.  Times  Review:  "Really  funny.  You  have  to  laugh — laugh  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly." 

Chicago  Record-Herald:  "There  is  enough  of  the  Stockton  flavor  in  this 
volume  to  make  it  deserve  a  new  career  in  its  fresh  dress.  The  book  is 
pleasantly  illustrated." 

Washington  Star:  "Each  one  of  them  is  a  blessing.  It  will  aid  diges- 
tion, induce  health,  and  add  to  the  joy  of  the  living." 

CHEERFUL   AMERICANS 

Illustrated  by  Mmes.  Shinn,  Cory,  and  others. 

Seventeen  humorous  tales,  including  three  quaint  automo- 
bile stories,  and  the  "Americans  Abroad"  series,  "The  Man 
of  Putty,"  "Too  Much  Boy,"  "The  Men  Who  Swapped  Lan- 
guages," "  Veritable  Quidors,"  etc. 

N.  Y.  Times  Saturday  Review  says  of  one  of  the  stories:  "It  is  worthy 
of  Frank  Stockton."  The  rest  of  the  notice  praises  the  book. 

N.  Y.  Tribune:  "He  is  unaffectedly  funny,  and  entertains  us  from 
beginning  to  end." 

Nation:  "The  mere  name  and  the  very  cover  are  full  of  hope.  .  .  . 
This  small  volume  is  a  safe  one  to  lend  to  a  gambler,  an  invalid,  a  hypo- 
chondriac, or  an  old  lady;  more  than  safe  for  the  normal  man." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


STIRRING  MYSTERY  STORIES 

ANGEL  ESQUIRE 

By  EDGAR  WALLACE.     12mo,  $1.50. 

A  rattling  good  detective  story  in  which  an  inexperienced  girl 
has  to  contend  with  three  unscrupulous  and  during  criminals  for 
millions  strangely  bequeathed  to  one  of  the  four.  The  situation 
and  incidents  are  highly  original,  and  the  game  with  fate  is 
played  with  a  light-hearted  good  humor  that  is  particularly 
alluring. 


By  BURTON  E.  STEVENSON 
THAT  AFFAIR  AT  ELIZABETH 

Another  story  in  which  Lester,  the  young  lawyer,  and  Godfrey, 
the  reporter,  play  the  part  of  detectives  in  unraveling  a  modern 
mystery.  $1.50. 

"  A  well-constructed  detective  story  .  .  .  surrounding  the  disappearance 
of  a  bride  a  few  minutes  before  the  hour  set  for  her  wedding.  A  murder  is 
committed  at  about  the  time  of  her  vanishing,  and  the  two  etoriesare  vigorously 
interwoven,  being  worked  out  to  a  surprising  conclusion." — Chicago  Post. 

"Starts  with  a  capital  situation.  .  .  .  The  reader  is  utterly  unable  to  guess 
at  the  secret."— N.  Y.  Tribune. 

THE  MARATHON   MYSTERY 

The  story  of  a  strange  happening  in  a  New  York  apartment 
house,  and  at  a  Long  Island  house  party.  The  plot  is  unusual, 
full  of  surprises  ;  the  handling  is  masterful.  It  has  been  repub- 
lished  in  England  and  Germany.  With  five  scenes  in  color  by 
ELIOT  KEEN.  $1.50. 

"The  author  has  stepped  at  once  to  the  front  ranks  among  American  writers 
of  detective  tales  .  .  .  a.yarn  with  genuine  thrills."— Bookman. 

"Distinctly  an  interesting  story— one  of  the  sort  that  the  reader  will  not  lay 
down  before  he  goes  to  bed."— New  York  Sun. 

THE   HOLLADAY  CASE 

This  remarkable  story  begins  with  the  finding  of  a  New  York 
banker  stabbed  to  death  in  his  office.  Suspicion  falls  on  his 
daughter.  A  kidnapping  and  pursuit  over  seas  follow.  The 
story  contains  a  minimum  of  horror  and  a  maximum  of  ingenu- 
ity, and  the  mystery  is  kept  up  to  the  next  to  last  chapter. 
With  frontispiece  by'ELiOT  KEEN.  $1.25. 

"A  good  detective  story,  and  it  is  the  better  because  the  part  of  the  hero  is 
not  filled  by  a  member  of  the  profession.  .  .  .  The  reader  will  not  want  to 
pnt  the  book  down  until  he  has  reached  the  last  page.  Most  ingeniously  con- 
structed and  will  written  into  the  bargain."— JV.  Y.  Tribune. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (vi  '07)  NEW  YORK 


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